


Love Like Winter

by garnettrees



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Ableism, Accidental Bonding, Angry Erik, Angry Erik is Extremely Angry, BAMF Charles, Blood Magic, Body Image, Captivity, Charles Is a Darling, Child Abuse, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Courtly Love, Cthulhu Mythos, Dark Magic, Devotion, Dreamsharing, Dubious Consent, Elves, Emma Frost HBIC, Emma is a badass, Emotionally Repressed, Erik Being Cocky, Erik Does Not Share Well, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik does what he wants, Erik is Evil and we like it, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Faey - Freeform, Fairy Tales, Fantasy Violence, High Fantasy, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping as Courtship, Lovecraftian, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mysticism, Oblivious Charles, Obsession, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Psychic Bond, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romantic Friendship, Seduction, Shaw Being a Manipulative Bastard, Soul Bond, Spells & Enchantments, Spoils of War, Survivor Guilt, Telepathy, The Author Regrets Nothing, Worldbuilding, but questionable, hurt!charles, smitten!Erik, verbal fencing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnettrees/pseuds/garnettrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Once, when all the world was green and young, there lived two very different little boys..."</p><p>Now these boys have grown, thrust onto a political battlefield filled with long-held grudges and secret motives. Charles has spent the majority of his adult life studying and teaching the finer points of spell casting.</p><p>Erik... Erik fights for what is his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So, remember that story I mentioned-- 'slightly kinky top!Erik' that I was trying to finish before posting? Well, I got to 32k and couldn't sit on it any longer. Pretty much a shameless fantasy pastiche, featuring adorable elf-eared!Charles and warrior!Erik, with dub-con. What is it about this pairing and dub con? *looks at [this image](http://demando.net/cecomics.jpg)* Yeah, never mind. 
> 
> Inspired by [this](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/8700.html?thread=19001340#t19001340) comment on the kink meme-- I didn't follow the prompt closely enough that I felt it counted, but I still wanted to give credit where credit was due. It'll also give you a better idea of the general premise, if you're in the mood to be spoiled. Heavy inspiration also pulled from the Jewish fairytale, "The Forest Witch". And HP Lovecraft. 
> 
> If I could bother you for just one more moment to comment, I'd really, really appreciate it. Just a word or a "*#&!xwfh&SBQ" makes my day. (The later, of course, tells me that your cat says 'hi'. ^_~)
> 
>  **TW:** Not many in particular for this chapter-- just general depictions of violence. However, future chapters may include emotional blackmail, dub con, inability to consider personal space, obsessive courtly love, and Erik generally wreaking vengeance on the population at large. Also, author's dubious world-building. ^^;
> 
> Ps. Huge thanks to Ook for the 'erik does what he wants' tag. ^___^

_"Warn your warmth to turn away,_  
Here it's December every day.  
Press your lips to the sculptures and surely you'll stay  
(love like winter)  
for of sugar and ice I am made..."  
-Love Like Winter, by the AFI

* * *

_( **"Once-- long ago, when all the world was green and young-- there lived two little boys."**_

_The story is told in Edie's voice, for it is she that first weaves it. As years pass, the narrative begins to fade, passing out of her firm contralto and into Charles' gentle countertenor. He and Erik are too young for work or war, but too old for stories. In the night, on the pallet just an arm's length away, Erik whispers, "Charles, the story--"_

_Charles is the younger of the two, and Charles is a prince, but he yields. Even if the daylight hours have been full of teasing and spats, even as his older friend blows alternately hot and cold, the little elf-boy just sighs and takes up the thread. The beginning of the story is set, recited from memory._

_**"Two little boys, of very different breeds. They shared not a drop of blood, but they were the best of friends--"**_

_And so it goes.)_

 

 

The battle has been raging for hours and-- though he has a limited field of view from his narrow tower window-- Charles fears the Elfkind bowmen are becoming overwhelmed. The enemy came in the watches of the night, and the warriors of Acidalium have been holding them off ever since. At first, the two forces seemed so evenly matched as to perpetuate the fight for years. Then, as the wraith-pale flush of dawn began to dissolve the night, the tell-tale iron storm clouds of the enemy had begun to gather. Those thunderheads banished the very idea of sunshine, blanketing the sky like a sheet of dull, battered armor. Charles knows it is noon only only thanks to the rare crystal water-clock, with its delicate tiers and dripping, concentric circles. It occupies in a place of honor amongst his root-woven bookshelves and the seemingly endless flood of herbs growing in their neat little ivory garden plots. Day or no, the snow had soon let loose like the bitterest of night blizzards, accompanied by a fierce tiger's roar of thunder that betrayed its origins. No natural storm this-- not even the product simply of a talented coven. There is a powerful conjurer out there, whose hand has authored both the deep chill and the snow currently obscuring the sky-blue cloaks of the Imperial Guard. A white chaos. 

 

The King had sent for Ororo, insisting Charles stay behind. He'd locked the door for good measure-- not that such physical barriers are actually capable of holding the scholar for long. Charles frowns direly at the keyhole. For all his magic, fear of his stepfather is more than enough to keep him where he is. 

He hopes the Strategic Mages aren't exhausting Ororo, giving her too many orders at once. She is still so young, and her manna so raw. If only he'd been allowed to accompany them, he could have walked her through it. Then, at least, he'd feel useful. Never mind that he and Emma have spent most of the past three days weaving white (and sometimes gray) magic into the arrows and broadswords of the Imperial Guard. They are both skilled spell-casters, the pride of Acidalium's alabaster spires, but all defensive magic has its limits. Charles has no idea where Emma is right now, but he is more than certain she's putting to use some of the more aggressive spells they learned in secret. At the time, it had seemed so audacious-- they'd crouched mischievously in the forgotten alcoves of the library, alive with their little rebellion. 

 

_'Could I use them, though?'_ the young elf asks himself. Charles listens to the cries and sounds of war below, and shakes his head. Probably he is giving himself too much credit; when pressed, many can take a life and not think of it, no matter their intellectual or moral qualms. When your back is against the wall, as they say. 

He fears he'll feel his own spine hit the marble soon enough.

_'So don't let them maneuver you there to begin with,'_ he imagines Erik saying, voice just beginning to deepen to that of a grown man's. _'I know you always slip out of my traps.'_ Ah, but that was Castles, Devil's Tower, Hounds and Jackals-- intellectual games, but still games in the end.  
And so long ago. 

 

 

_(Edie sets the story, but Charles fairly sings it. That's always Erik's excuse, for surely he knows it just as well himself. Even in the softness of youth, there is something brash about the older boy. Like the sparks that fly from the metal-smith's anvil, like the shield and ploughs and swords he is learning to forge into submission. Charles is of the Court, and thus expected to cultivate more sedentary talents. A scholar, yes, and a bard. He has a ghostwood dulcimer, and a little bronze pick Erik made himself._

_**"These two lived in the same city; they shared their toys, and their studies, and their play. In the dark forest to the north, they learned all the secret paths and little hiding spots together. They were more quiet amongst the thrush than the stealthiest of deer."**_

_Erik and Charles live in Chryse Planitia-- there are no forests here. In the great capital of the North, there are rolling grasslands, endless marshy rivers where they explore and play. They are experts of the reeds, silent and quick._

_**"One day, the two boys decided the play hide and seek in the forest…"** )_

 

 

The Dark Lord's forces seem tireless, clad in vibranium armor supposedly the gift of Loki himself, and armed with wards so unspeakable it hardly bears thinking about. Looking down at the mass of combatants, the black banners flying in defiance of the snow, the tattered blue seal of his own house still held aloft, it strikes the elf prince afresh just how powerful the enemy has become. It has come to this-- Acidalium, once the tiered garden-tower of Elvish academics and members of the lower court, now the final stronghold for their kind. They have been arrogant, and they have been foolish, and now here is the price. Though only a halfling, Charles is able to acknowledge the flaws of Elfkind, just has he is able to see the nobility of his lineage. They have hobbled themselves, letting fear of breaking convention and a horror of change render them defenseless against the Dark Lord's tide. Now his magic outpaces theirs, having evolved in ways their petty traditions could never have allowed for.

That's the problem with magic, dark and light. The delineation is a human one, and therefore extremely flawed. Never the less, it has been universally adopted. The Elves-- and other beings of higher spheres-- have lived with the Sons of Man too long, seduced by 'either/or'. As a scholar of the esoteric and the obscure, Charles knows there's really not that much difference between supposed 'white' and 'black' spells. One can start out with the best of intentions and end up enacting evil spell craft. There's a subconscious element to all casting, and a quality that stems from the soul. Manna-- magical energy-- comes from ones indestructible inner being (though what one called it can be argued, as many do). Since the Parting of the Spheres, or what Man called 'The Fall', no creature is truly pure.

 

Charles leaps lightly from his perch near the high, narrow window-- begins pacing the floor. He loathes this inaction, the sense that there is more he could be doing to protect his colleagues and students. Kurt will not permit it, though. These days, the Elvish King looks at Charles with an eye even more suspicious than he did in the boy's childhood. Lady Sharon, too, expresses some unease in his company, though she is still bright and prone to distraction, as all faey are. It was the Dark Lord, they both said; it was rumored that he sought mages to bolster his already incredible power. Charles could be used against his own people, if he 'fell into the wrong hands'. 

_'Falling,'_ he thinks morosely. His arms come around his own thin torso in a short of self-hug-- it allows him to reach back and itch and the healing flesh of his shoulder blades, as well. If he leapt from the window now, he would fall, not fly. He'd land in one piece, certainly, though wind-magic is not one of his most polished skills. Briefly, he traces a hand over his quarterstaff, propped innocuously against his writing desk. Pole fighting is made for close-quarters combat; Charles is not suited for the sword, but he is lithe, quick on his feet, and deadly accurate. 

'Aye,' Kurt had agreed with him snidely, nodding in a manner that mocked wisdom. 'And the moment you let loose with a spell, the Dark Lord would snatch you up. Eat you-- G-d knows he'd not even have to chew, you're such a scrap.'

 

_(As the years pass, the differences between them become more difficult to ignore. Charles' studies become ever more complex and time-consuming. Erik is apprenticed, his hands rough from work, ever more aware of the soot and grim that doesn't always wash away. Old enough to be aware of the looks, the narrow gazes down noses, that pure blood elves give him when he goes to see his friend. The way they whisper about Charles and his small, folded faey wings-- as if they can get away with it. As if no one can hear them behind their fine, smooth hands._

_"You're like a little doll!" he says to Charles once, half sneering. There is something intense about his gaze, about the way he looms close, even as he laughs. "I bet even in the moonlight, you'd burn.")_

 

The young academic forces his breathing to even, idly casting his eyes over his workspace. The many quartz-bottles full of colored ink shine in the firelight, their gem tones echoed in the drying manuscripts he's been illuminating. So much for that, and for his lengthy treatise on inner focus. It has long pleased students of the magical crafts to over-simplify, creating a set of rules and ritual to avoid serious self-examination. He'd hoped to present his argument to the Council, persuade them that some of the sorcerer's tactics must be changed. Then word had come that the Dark Lord's forces where advancing through the plateau of Leng, where even most seasoned warlocks feared to tread, cutting their travel time in half. The Elves had, once again, been caught off guard. 

The 'gray' magic he and Emma used-- in the few short days they had to prepare-- is frowned upon, but thankfully subtle and difficult for the lay being to detect. To do this, they wrought wards and spells not only to engender victory, alacrity and valor, but imbued also with their fierce affection for those they'd known who had already fallen. It is not _quite_ a desire for revenge, but it is close enough that it would give their teachers pause. Emma thinks of her older brother as she works. Tall, ash-blond as she, talented with both lyre and javelin. He fell years ago, when Shaw first so treacherously breached the kingdom's boarders. 

 

_(Erik doesn't say 'I'm sorry'-- he never does. Not even when he pushes Charles into the pool on the pavilion, even when he teases Raven so mercilessly about her crush that she doesn't talk to either of them for days._

_He comes to throw pebbles against the lattice of Charles' window. The elf-prince lingers in the shadowy curtains, where he has been pretending not to wait._

_"Come out," the smithy's apprentice beckons. The Chrysian night is still-- summer-warm, and thick with inarticulate promises._

_"I can't," Charles sniffs in exaggerated disdain. "The moonlight might burn me."_

_But he opens the window anyway.)_

 

 

Charles weaves for Erik, always; would do so even if no one needed weapons grade spells. Twenty years is the length of a life for many unfortunate humans-- especially soldiering ones-- and almost nothing to an Elf. Still, Charles is very young, not past his first century, and it seems to him that these past two decades have been very long, indeed. Doubtless, the gangly rough-yet-comely halfling looks nothing like he did when Charles knew him, but it's hard to picture anything else. Erik was astonishingly handsome, even as a boy. Grey-green eyes like the arctic seas off Kadaath, which Charles has only read about. Face angular but pleasing, down to the strong, determined jaw. Erik's beauty came from his mother, transmuted in his own features to a sort of masculine loveliness. The stone mason-- Jakob Lehnsherr-- had been human, but his wife was a creature of higher spheres. An angel, humans had said, for they were vague and easily confused. 

 

Now, seemingly trapped in the thick adrenaline between moments, Charles forces himself to sit. His hands lay quite naturally on his knees, palms up, as he tries to clear his mind. He can cast wards, at least, from here. He begins the structure of the spell, envisioning the boy he knew-- best friend, antagonist, brother in all but blood-- and leaves it at that. The rest doesn't really bear thinking about. Yet his own mind is unruly, and he is heartsore with fear. 

 

 

( _How was he to know those still summer nights were numbered? Erik climbs into the bedchamber, moving restlessly amongst the books and brushes and inks. There were days he seemed alive with inner-lightning, unable to be still. He'd gotten funny about being touched, or sitting on Charles' bed._

_Yet there he is, and he is still the prince's best and most-loved friend. Charles is patient. Careful and soothing, the way he has seen with wild horses. Finally, Erik sits on the floor._

_"Tell it," he says.)_

 

 

"I _can't_," Charles says aloud, presently. He is alone, shunted aside-- there is no one to hear him speaking to his memories. The story changed over the years, shifted like quicksilver; the boys got lost in the woods and had an adventure, or they outwitted ogres. They found hidden treasure, or discovered an enchanted princess and went on a quest. He doesn't remember how Edie originally told it, and he himself had woven it so many different ways. What does it matter? It couldn't charge the bare and chilling truth. 

 

Twenty years. Two human decades, since Shaw decided he was no longer content with his occasional raids on the rich lands of Jord. Ever a leader of particular convictions, he had declared that Sons of Adam should not mingle with the more supernatural breeds, and he held forth his sword to author this decree. Out of the cold desert wastes of Nod he swept, a terrible, pitiless sandstorm. He burned villages, slaughtered all that breathed a word of defiance, conscripting every young man of more than twelve summers. He'd driven the Elves back, too-- away from the capital of Chyrse Planitia, and back to the more ancient holdings in Syrtis and Acidalium. How enraged Kurt had been, snarling at the indignity of retreat. He had sent the Court away, ahead of the advancing army, loudly insisting it was only a precaution. 

Charles' last memory of Erik is a view from the carriage as it bore him away from his friend.

 

It's hard to hold that image in his mind's eye, regardless of the power it possesses. It is still clear as silver etching in crystal, even after all this time, and that hurts. The slump of the older boy's shoulders, the fit of his protective dragon-hide tunic. Erik had been silent as he watched them leave, one hand fisted around the pendant Charles had given him, the other clutching a sword. Not even a true weapon, but one of Jackob Lehnsherr's copper chisels that Erik had magicked into a saber's blade. He was good at that, wickedly coaxing metals to his will, but he'd still looked so skinny and lost. Fourteen, yes, but no where near the age for war.

Whether Shaw conscripted them or not, his war forced many young men and women to take up arms. Strife and chaos came to Jord, disturbing the delicate peace between the other worldly kingdoms, and that of Man. Co-existence had always been tenuous, but Shaw's purity rhetoric had burdened tolerance past the point of breaking. The humans countered with their own definition of the 'True Form', denouncing halfings, shapeshifters, and all practitioners of magic as the spawn of hell. They withdrew to their own fortresses, each with its own dogmatic set of rituals and prohibitions, which they characterized as the 'word of G-d'. Even the humans outside such cloisters, taking refuge instead in Acidalium and other Evlish strongholds, seethed with night-deep resentment. Why shouldn't they, when Kurt taxed them for his protection, demanding they acknowledge their 'betters'? It seemed the warlord of Nod-- formerly the land of exile-- could sift age-old grudges out of still water, by word as well as sword. 

 

 

_("Don't be afraid," Erik tells him, one of those final evenings. They are too young to be aware of the true scope of the danger, but too old to remain oblivious. It is an in-between time, like the green and somehow pained growth of new trees. For the first time in a long while, Erik takes Charles' hands in his own. "I'll protect you."_

_"You'll do no such thing!" the prince scolds, alarmed. "You can come with me-- with the Court-- Shaw isn't invincible… when it's safe, we'll come back." Even as he says it, part of him knows its a lie._

_The older boy shakes his head. "The Elf Court will not abide my mother or I among them. Charles, they barely tolerate _you_." For once, he isn't saying it to be cruel. For all Charles strives to see the good in everyone he meets, he is very painfully aware that-- prince or no-- he is 'other'. The Elves can be as slavish about 'purity' as Shaw._

_"I know." He tries to look down, but Erik won't let him. The taller boy pulls him into a rough, close hug._

_"They don't matter, anyway.")_

 

 

Shaw was mad from the beginning, or so the wagging tongues of Elvish Court intoned. He wanted to breed armies that came to their magic naturally, instead of through skill and years of study. He despised the Sons of Adam for their weakness, and the Elves for their high-minded dedication to three-fold rule. 

Shaw, the Lord of Carnage, they called him. Shaw, the Silver Death; for he was ever so fond of cutting into his enemies, to expose quivering organic clockwork and see what made them tick. It was far better to die on the battlefield, one more cord of wood in a seemingly endless fire, then to be taken alive. It seemed they were doomed to contain the conflagration only, never quite able to exhaust the flames.

 

' _Oh, but then!_ 'Charles thinks, biting his lip brutally. He keeps weaving, head down, though he can hear the Master of the Guard's horn sounding, signaling their forces to retreat and protect the keep. A moment later, the whole ziggurat trembles- a blast from a cannon, reinforced with a coating of strong rage-magic. 

That… that is something new. 

 

How it had shocked the placid Elvish council, word of the enemy's new tactics. Wedding magic to technology was blasphemous, and wholly out of keeping with Shaw's ideology. It was all that was talked of. After all, the last time they'd had something appalling to discuss had been Charles' own birth. The Heir of the House of Xavier, a halfling! That what woman, that _faey_ , not content with her conquest of the Duke. When he died, Lady Sharon-- an artist with the delicate threads of power-- began endearing herself to the king.  
They called her the 'Fairy Whore'.  
And worse.

 

The change came suddenly, five years ago-- and it turned the tide of the war. Charles' twenty-first year, that had been, just old enough to take an acolyte's orders and choose his magical specialty. The rumors from the front lines became so wild they could hardly be credited. Survivors whispered of a Dark Lord, a man with no face save the shadow beneath his helmet. It was said he forged weapons of deadly accuracy, and led his soldiers into battle without fear. This warrior, it was said, believed the Elves in possession of some great and precious treasure, and he would take it at all costs. Some insisted this creature and Shaw were one and the same; that the Lord of Carnage had finally delved into magic's so hideous they warped his physical being. Certainly, there was reason to believe this, for Shaw himself was seen no more.

_'Except that doesn't quite make sense.'_ With a sigh, Charles ties off the end of the ward. He raises the fingers of his right hand to his temple, concentrating on a burst of magical energy. It is a tell-- one his teachers have long been at pains to correct-- but no one is here to see it now. 

 

With the ease of long practice, the scholar deftly climbs to the ledge of his high tower window once more. If the impact from the cannon is visible from here, he will lay the ward against it, and perhaps buy Acidalium a bit more precious time. One glance at the Dark Lord's armies easily argues against the theory of Shaw. Even now, they are covering en masse, storming the four cardinal gates of the city, trampling the blue robes of the fallen Royal Guard. They are goblins and dwarves, every combination of human and sylph and nymph and gnome imaginable. Most of the artillery men appear to be the get of satyrs, notorious for rutting with human maids. Outcasts, all of them-- never fully one thing or the other. Caught in a gulf, they are strangers to their own selves, as Erik had been.

 

"_Is_," Charles corrects viciously, aloud. For years, he has placed faith in the power of words, as if he can somehow protect his old friend by keeping him in the present tense. So many have been lost-- Gabrielle, felled by another archer's aim; Bobby, cut in two while still upon his horse; Moira, whose city was captured but a year ago. It is whispered in the Court that it is a kindness to hope her safely dead. Raven, who remained in Chryse all those years ago. She was a shape-shifter, and even her pretty blond elfin form was not welcome amongst the noble Elves. 

 

Erik… foolishly, Charles clings to hope, however faint. Not a scar, but a raw open wound. Pulsing, still bleeding freely in defiance of time. Now, selfishly, the prince wonders if perhaps he will be blessed to find his wish not granted. It is almost certain the scholar will die today, all magikal skill and martial training aside. Perhaps Erik will be there to greet him in the Afterlife, on the shores of the land Elves call Para'Dys. The bountiful land Edie sang of as Gan-Eden. 

 

_(No matter how the story went, the end was always the same. The two boys-- those youthful heroes who were each other's yin and yang-- acquitted themselves bravely. They slew dragons, righted wrongs. They returned treasure to the rightful owners, and land to the peoples that had toiled over it so. If they came to rule a kingdom, they did it justly, with honor in their every deed._

_And they did it together.)_

 

Wryly, Charles smiles a little at his own foolishness. Then, not giving himself time to think, he gathers up the ward and scrambles back up to his lone, narrow window. With years of practiced grace, he filters the perception in the air around him. It is not so much a concealing spell as it is a shift _away_ , directing the eye elsewhere. _'Don't look here, it's not important.'_ Sure enough, he is able to perch on the narrow buttress, crane his neck as he tries to absurd the chaos of battle down below. 

Acidalium's wards are badly damaged, and many of the enemy's ice arrows are flying true. He can't get a good look at the damage from the cannon blast from here, but he can see the tattered, web-like framework of many smaller holes nearby. It looks almost as if acid has eaten _through_ the magic. A moment later, he can very clearly see why. There is a Faey woman-- from the Dark Court, by the look of her tattoos-- hovering to the southeast. Her wings are moving so quickly they can scarcely be seen, and she is spitting eldritch green bits of spell work from between pouty lips. Below her, two shifter demons are anxiously watching, waiting for a breach just big enough to teleport through. The blue one is young and too jittery, but the red one is strong, fully grown. He manages long pauses between appearances, materializing with little to no effort. 

Biting his lip, Charles casts about for any sign of his own forces. The main of the fighting is actually over to the west, which is probably why so much of the Dark Faey's damage has gone undetected. Breaking concealment, he throws up the newly-made ward in his hand, melding it seamlessly with the city's shields. That definitely gets their attention. The faey woman screeches into the wind, peppering her green blasts harder and with more frequency. She's riding the warm air currents. Distantly, Charles can feel Ororo summoning a cold blast to knock her down, but its too diffuse. Balancing precariously on one palm, Charles sends a cold gust of his own. Wind is not his element, but Ororo's magic recognizes a friend in his own, giving the draft just enough strength to send their enemy swooping downward. She manages to land anyway, but must do so amidst the squad of ogres battering the gate. Most of her projectiles land on her own people, but a few snag on Charles' repaired ward.  
The blue demon flickers in and out. He still can't get through. 

The red one…  
The red one disappears, and does not come back.

 

Charles' heart is in his throat, so pounding and swollen that he does not at first realize he's translated thought into action. Swinging down from the parapet, he nimbly alights on another ledge, slipping his lithe form through yet another narrow window. He's never jumped from such a height, and his astonished bark of laughter echoes loudly in the empty stairwell. At least this way, he doesn't have to worry about wasting time disarming Kurt's locks. In that same instant, he sobers, drawing in lungfuls of cold air as he summons his quarterstaff. Aparating objects is much easier than summoning living forms through the ether, especially something as personal as a weapon. Charles carved his staff himself, of the strongest ghostwood. The adamantium grips should glow if the demon is near, but he's not going to rely on that. He's never had the chance to test it, after all. 

The red one is here, in this almost-empty wing of the citadel, where he can run riot and compromise the catacombs Kurt had sealed shut months ago. It's so hideously simple, and Charles quietly berates himself. For all his much-vaunted call for new strategy, he had failed to really consider how damning even a single teleporter could be. He can't bring a whole army in with him, but he might not need to. Charles will have to find him-- and kill him-- before the creature can bring any scouting intelligence to the Dark Lord. There is no treasure here but, clearly, the Dark Lord doesn't know that, or refuses to believe it. Just wraith-thick coatings of dust and cobwebs, fading mosaics and great marble pillars depicting former glories. 

Even the sound of his bare feet on stone steps seems hideously loud to Charles' ears, never mind the light rustle of his tunic. He can sense that the wards were reached, but has no feeling for where the demon may be within the compromised sanctuary. He should be able to sense the foreign manna, the magical will of one harboring ill intent… but there's nothing. Down one flight, and then another-- pausing, closing his eyes now and again to extend his empathic senses. Surely the demon didn't teleport in and out that fast? Perhaps, the scholar considers frantically, it only meant to smuggle in some technological terror, a thing of fire and gunpowder that could be left to wreck havoc on its own. 

 

No, no. There is a sound, like the clang of a sword or some other metal one has attempted to lay aside quietly. Marshalling his will, Charles tracks discreetly down the forgotten corridor. Perhaps this demon teleporter is a disciple of the Old Ones, with magic so strong and subtle even the dedicated young scholar cannot detect it. His form is frozen utterly still, awaiting any new noise as he contemplates this terrible prospect, when he hears it:

"Charles!"

Every rib in his chest must vibrate with the strength of his heart, but the prince does not move. It is not a voice he recognizes, though the urgency is implicit in the whisper. Is the demon empathically inclined as well? He is moving quickly, ensuring he maintains cover, when he feels a strong hand pluck him up from behind. Whirling quickly, he uses his quarterstaff to balance his weight, cracking against the offender's wrist as the collar of his own tunic rips loudly. He lands in a crouch, surprised when there are not more blows to follow immediately. Instead, a sort of stillness overtakes the hall, as if there other dare not move. 

 

It is no demon that meets Charles' gaze as he straightens from his embattled position. It is a man-- a _human_ man, from a glance. Tall, rugged, clad in the dragon-hide typically worn underneath armor. There's a sword-- sheathed-- at his side, and many a delicate throwing knife strapped to his boots, but he is oddly vulnerable. No helmet, no vibranium chest-plate or gauntlets. The other is so still that Charles could almost believe him one of Acidalium's many beautiful statues, if not for the living color trapped in the flush of his cheeks. 

"Charles," says the intruder again. The prince straightens his shoulders, transferring the grip of his own weapon into both hands. He does not relax his stance, even as he searches for some clue to the stranger's identity. 

"I am he," the Xavier heir says carefully. The human man is tall, and he spreads his strong arms wide in a gesture universally meant to indicate he is not armed. Gray green eyes, the color of some powerful storm, gaze fixedly into the scholar's own. He says nothing, briefly reaching out a hand, before snatching it back as though he's afraid he'll be burned. In spite of himself, Charles takes a step closer, if only for better inspection. The solider bears no mark, no brand on his clothing or skin, to indicate allegiance-- the dragon hide is deep maroon, patched in places with more common bit of violet scale. Underneath, the stranger wears a simple, dirty cloth shirt-- only the collar of it is visible, and it parts to reveal an odd ornament.

 

"Charles," he says again, and the prince begins to wonder if the figure is some illusion, cast with only a few words and a shimmering form to lead him astray. Except no conjured shade could have gripped him so, nor could it produce the battle-sweat rolling down against the pendant the figure wears. It's a delicate little thing, twined in a vague suggestion of wings, with an empty circle indicating there was once a jewel set within. It…

Blue gaze flickering up, Charles finds himself taking in that visage once more. An edge of startled wonder creeps along his spine, finally relaxing his combat-ready stance. He feels transfixed, as one scrying for the future over a deep well. Then, as suddenly as the star-burst of a match, something in those features begins to make sense. Memory casts a ghostly shadow over the present form, revealing a face he knows.

"… Erik?"

 

There are strong arms around him, warm and unyielding, but somehow filled with care. He hears a deep voice whispering-- mostly his name, and something almost subvocal, lyrical and beyond human speech. Charles feels a brief prickle of alarm, but it is quickly lost as the taller form swings him 'round in an enthusiastic embrace. The prince's bare feet no longer touch the floor-- firm, dry kisses are being pressed into his hair.

The weight of the realization makes his knees weak. "My god, Erik!"

 

The quarterstaff clatters numbly to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> World-Building Notes:  
>  **Jord** \- from Norwegian, 'Earth'.  
>  **Land of Nod** \- from Genesis, supposedly the land 'east of Eden', where Cain was sent after he murdered his younger brother.  
>  **Acidalium** \- from Greek mythology. The fountain where Venus and the Graces bathed.  
>  **Leng** \- from Lovecraft. A terrible continent lost in the Flood.  
>  **Kadaath** \- from Lovecraft. A forbidden region-- thought to be in the Antarctic-- in the cold wastes, home to something even star-spawn fear.  
>  **Chryse Planitia** \- Greek, 'golden plain'. Also an area on Mars, to the north, where one of the Viking landers took photos.  
>  **Gan Eden** \- Hebrew. The Garden of Eden, or an allusion to Heaven. 
> 
> … yeah, I know I'm weird. It's way too late to do anything about it. ^_~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many things conspired to keep me from posting this tonight... now that I've outrun them all, I don't think I have the breath left to go on as I usually do. ^_~ However, I have to thank Ook, JenniferC77, Gerec, sakurazukalori, paralife, avictoriangirl, Little+D, Black_Betty, RJ and Renuki for all their kind and wonderful words of encouragement. I can't thank you enough! You guys made this a better chapter than it would have been on its own.
> 
>  **TW for this Chapter** : Magical influence/intoxication, brief descriptions of fantasy violence, edging towards the dub con button, Erik being very... ahem... *focused* on what's his. But also ridiculously besotted. ^_^
> 
> Thank *all* of you, for just taking the time to read this. I can't tell you how awesome that is. If I could bother you just a bit more to comment, I'd be very much obliged. (My muse, she is a whore. It's okay, we just won't tell my mom. ^_~)

"My god, Erik!"

 

The name is like a talisman, banishing any discomfort or concern. Charles' own arms come up around the familiar stranger's neck, resting there like the heavy strands of a medallion chain. Later, he will tell himself this was for balance, and know in his heart that is a lie. It is joy he feels now, complete and unvarnished. Outside the moment, the battle, his fear and uncertainty-- outside of time.

 

_(Stories are always vague about time; intricate watch faces without any hands. 'Some years passed', they say, or 'not long after'. Time is fluid, the best amber-grain spirit flowing freely, letting decades and centuries slip through your fingers. It doesn't take into account the day to day living, the hours and moments. The dark watches of the night, when you wake gasping, as if you have outrun the past. Shivering in your bedclothes, you are without context, memory mingling with dream. Then it does catch up with you, knocking you windless again-- what you've lost, what you know, and what you'll never know.  
The unclaimed bodies and unmarked graves, the line of a life cut by a harpy's sheers.)_

 

The embrace is crushing from both ends, as if they are trying to bridge that chasm. Erik always hugged hard anyway-- he claimed Charles' faey blood made the prince flighty and difficult to pin down. Now the young noble feels his own hands lacing behind that strong neck, the curve of skull. The hair is matted and tangled beneath his fingers, but oddly soft all the same. 

"Little _maus_ ," Erik's voice is a baritone rumble, felt as much as heard. Charles blushes, and is glad the other man cannot see. He presses his burning cheek into the hollow of the warrior's shoulder. In doing so, he catches a whiff of something so utterly loved and essential that he hasn't known until just now how much he's missed it. Cedar, vetiver-- the sweet yet utterly masculine scent of his friend. It has mulled, deepened with maturity, gaining a heavy note of copper and the smell of mountain stone. 

 

Reluctantly, Erik sets Charles back on his feet. After a fashion, rather, for he keeps the scholar so close that Charles' bare toes rest on the big armored boots, rather than the actual floor. 

"Not so little anymore," Charles argues, but it comes out rather sheepish. Standing at full height, his own gaze is only just level with Lehnsherr's roughly shaven chin. Laughter comes out of his own red mouth-- it sounds half-hysterical instead of self-conscious, and it puts the Elf harshly in mind of why. He looks around, as much as he is able to, craning his head to search for circumspect shadows. The identity of his sudden new companion is not in question. This is Erik; he could be no other. His magic is like a snatch of cradlesong, intimately remembered. At the same time, something is not adding up. Why did Charles not sense his old friend earlier, when he was scanning for the teleporter? Sympathetic magics call to one another, especially when bound by affection. Even now, he has a faint sense of Ororo, high in the tower eyrie; Hank, guarding the little ones in the library; Emma flaring bright and fearless on the wall parapets. 

Moreover, the demon is still loose in these halls, above the already vulnerable catacombs. He could be waiting to trap them both now, and Charles cannot afford to let the tunnels-- so crucial for the final, last-ditch plan he and Hank crafted-- be compromised. 

 

"There's a demon in this part of the keep," Charles whispers, well aware of the acoustics, particularly in this tall, abandoned gallery. The receiving chamber of some minor princess, from what he remembers; the histories distinguish her only for being even more blood-thirsty than she was beautiful. "A space shifter," he clarifies. 

"Red?" the quirk of Erik's lips is a variation on a well-known theme. Knowing, victorious, and more than a little cock-sure. "I sent him hence."

 

Charles shakes his head, but he doesn't doubt the older man's prowess. Now that he knows where to 'look', he can feel the immense scope and strength of Erik's manna. It's almost as if it is wrapped in a thin veil of Charles' own power-- which doesn't make any sense. It's a kind of communion he's read about only in dusty, faded tomes. Weaving magic together to such a degree is an intimate act, something many mages never experience for themselves. It involves too much vulnerability for the sorcerer, and so the whole matter has gained a connotation of barbarism and impropriety. Even when Charles combines spells with Emma, they are careful to ensure their powers do not mingle and bleed. How did he miss this before?

Erik's hand comes up to cup the prince's cheek. "Charles."

"Yes?" Looking up into those churning-sea eyes, the scholar feels himself relax, body moulding to the hand on the small of his back. The embrace isn't stifling, though it feels very much all-encompassing. Liquid, voluptuous; more than capable of swallowing him whole. A thread of warmth steals up his spine, spreading, as a war-roughened thumb strokes his pulse and jaw. He's suddenly aware of how little sleep he's had these past few days. Of the sound of his own heartbeat, and Erik's calm breathing.

 

"I came to find you," Lehnsherr murmurs. "You must know I'll protect you."

There's a curious sensation of time doubling. Like a still water-glass, or a gnome's endless puzzle box. Erik's gaze is as it was that day on the road outside the capital-- alive with some fire the prince can't quite name.

"I'm perfectly--" the scholar begins, looking around for his quarterstaff. At that moment, Erik pulls him in for another close embrace. Like the glow of a hearth, this strong form-- Charles hadn't realized how chilled he was getting. Erik's hands-- always long-fingered, as elegant as the blades he crafted-- are so big now. Clearly powerful, they are oddly gentle in rubbing soothing, ever diminishing circles on the prince's back. 

 

_(As he did, long ago, when the great summer simoons would sweep out of Nod, full of poison sand and raging winds. They were storms without rain, without thunder-- only great clouds of dust that descended without warning. In the night, they lashed against the fine stone buildings of Chryse Planitia, which were fashioned from heavy granite so as to endure their timeless attacks. The boys might be playing in Edie's garden in the dim twilight, or sleeping out on the portico in the still, hot night. She would rush in and herd them to the sand-cellar. Charles-- so small then, so infinitely glad to be with the Lehnsherrs rather than at home-- would listen to the wind shriek, trembling like the limestone doors they pulled shut for protection._

_"The wind howls because it will not have victory," Erik would say, just a voice and a smudge of a smile in the dim light of the oil lamp. He would put his arms around the younger boy, let Charles have all the blankets. Often, they'd fall asleep tangled together; the adults would carry them back upstairs when the danger had passed. In his unquiet sleep, the scholar remembers Edie's soft laugh, her playful scolding of Jakob as they emerged from the dark.)_

 

Erik's ministrations have the same effect now, making Charles feel safe and drowsy. The touch is even pleasant on the scarred skin of his shoulder blades, an area that is usually very sensitive and quick to complain. So much of this seems like a dream, like the painful hopes he bore so readily in his youth. He used to imagine Erik would return, brought safely back to the Elvish stronghold by luck or chance. They would overcome adversity and be stronger for it. Like those two little boys in their mirrored story-world, they would live as brothers. 

How long has it been since he's truly possessed such belief? Brimming over with it, utterly credulous, singing epic ballads without a hint of irony? No wonder the court preferred Emma's wry, sardonic arias. 

 

From his lips, a word drops, though Charles himself is only half aware of it; "How…?"

"How what?" Distracted, indulgent.

"How did you get here?" the Elf pulls back to examine his friend's expression, but even that slight movement is accompanied by a wave of powerful vertigo. He holds on more tightly, as if afraid of falling. It's hard to keep from burrowing into the safety of dragon-hide and Erik's heartbeat. "I looked for you…" he confides distantly. "Every time refugees came from the conquered lands, any time human armies quartered here." There's something important about that, but he can't quite remember what it is. "Emma mocked me for it, but I never stopped hoping."

"I know, Charles," Erik presses a finger to the scholar's lips. "Well I know it, dear one. You kept me in your thoughts, your wards, your secret wishes for justice instead of revenge." A wry smile, and the younger man can see his own question and confusion reflecting back from those dark pupils. Blacker than the word can express, a deep void in which Lehnsherr seems to have hidden some great secret. He would have to get closer to puzzle it out. "I felt it," his friend continues, "always ever-so faint. Many times there were gaps, absences in which I feared you had forgotten me."

Charles realizes one of his own hands has come up to caress the pendant-- the twist of silver a much younger prince gave as a remembrance. It was one of the first true incarnations of his own magic; weaving in the protective spells, the jewel he'd magicked from whole cloth. An imperfect attempt at a star sapphire, he remembers-- he's not surprised to see it has since fallen out. The talisman itself is tarnished from years of wear, warm as the skin where it rests against his friend's strong chest. 

 

"It kept me alive," the soldier confides. "Never mind wounds or hunger, but when I would have died from sheer misery alone."

"But I never…" All those years, and Charles felt *nothing*. 

 

"Shaw never knew it." It is clear Erik is speaking more to his own memories. "He thought he'd killed the only person I ever cared about. I had to wait, never reach for you or weave your memory into a spell. I never spoke your name-- I guarded it. Sometimes I feared he would read it in my dreams; he was that insidious, that sly. I hid it so deep it burned into my bones." A rueful, almost embarrassed smile plays at his lips. "I had no idea."

Less than a whisper, "Of what?"

"How beautiful you had become."

 

 

There probably isn't a being in all the spheres that would understand Charles' surprise at what happens next. In a way, it's hard to credit the bewilderment himself, against the weight of logic. In the moment, however, his shock is genuine. Now he understands what Emma means when she calls him 'painfully naive'. It is painful, like a thousand tiny cuts.

Erik draws Charles close, and kisses him full on the mouth.

It is a soft kiss, for all its fervor-- and it is not the kiss of a brother or a friend. The soldier holds his young captive with all the care given to the finest crystal chalice, but with a coiled passion that forces the Elf prince to simply hold on. Charles' own lips remain closed, muffling his faint sound of surprise. The taller mage laps at them, but not to force entry. Rather, it is as if he is sipping, tasting the lithe form he has so tenderly imprisoned. Whatever flavor he finds must please him. A deep rumble echoes in the warrior's chest, the growl of a giant rock cat in the Forbidden Mountains. The pleasure of it sings through Charles, makes his own bones quaver. 

 

"Charles." The name is murmured, almost a nonsense chant. The scholar is not sure how Erik manages to speak; there's barely a breath between their lips. He doesn't push away, though. How could he? This is Erik! The boy who once minded a wee, curious Elf with unsteady legs and tiny, almost useless wings. The same Erik who tenderly bandaged scrapes, and then-- as they grew older and more prone to scuffles-- was the source of quite a few of them himself. Erik, who at eight skinned a rabbit utterly without flinching, but cried when he saw the tears on Charles' cheeks. 

 

_(When they fight, it's Edie who patches Charles up. Erik, she sends into the other room, with the supplies he'll need and a stern glance. She checks his work afterwards, tender of touch and strident of voice. She has words with him about his temper._

_"Do not spend the Prince's affections so lightly," she says with a firm shake of the finger. "You might wear them out."_

_But she must know this isn't possible-- she sees how watery and deep Charles' eyes are, after the angry words childish blows are over. She reminds the young prince that even trees feel pain as they grow, branches poking out at odd angles. Erik is all new, green wood and thorny brambles-- he's bound to scratch anyone who gets too close._

_"And I remember, when you were only a babe," she'd whisper, a conspirator's smile playing about her lips. "I feared you'd never learn to walk, he carried you about so. I'd swear your little feet never touched the ground.")_

 

'The bitter makes it sweet', is actually one of his own mother's phrases. Charles has never been much for Lady Sharon's little pearls of advice, but he sees the sense of this one now. Knowing he was important enough to fight with, to seek later for forgiveness, meant almost as much as each grudgingly tender caress. 

Erik is all sweet touches now, bright and torpid, the way it must feel for the fly trapped in amber. No longer a million jostling ripples-- _come closer, no you must go, please stay_ \-- contradicting each other, but a single smooth wave that effortlessly lifts Charles away. Endlessly soothing, and the prince is so very weary. Weary of worrying, of scrambling, of being afraid. It feels good to be held so, to once more be Erik's 'little maus'. 

 

What saves him next has nothing to do with wisdom or skill, feeling or instinct-- it is merely the caprice of fate. A lucky break, as it were; fortuitous, but also painful. Like the snapping of bone. The floor rocks beneath the prince's feet (rather, the armored boots he's perched upon). Erik pulls him flush, leaving both of them against the wall. He shields Charles between the tall column and his own hard, warrior's body, never breaking the kiss.

Xavier can hear debris falling, a cacophony of echoes in the endless halls. Those horrible rage-magic cannons aren't just hitting against the shields any more, but the actual brick and mortar and sheer cliff-face of Acidalium itself. For the first time in a dozen centuries, the wards have fallen. 

The moment snaps back into focus then, with all its peril and immediacy. He tears out of the kiss, clearing startling Erik. The taller man barely relaxes his grip, but it's enough for Charles-- ever adept at lock-picking spells and sleights of hand-- to deftly duck under his arm. Never the less, a strong and deadly hand quickly fastens itself about his wrist, like a bowman's gauntlet.  
Or a manacle.

 

"Erik!" Charles scolds impatiently. He tugs the other man, not so much to escape as to tow the other along with him back towards the main of the keep. "There's no time! Ororo is in the eyrie, and the other children--"

"Children?" the soldier asks flatly, stopping firm.

"My students." An absent clarification-- he is already mentally reviewing the plans he and Hank made, hoping against hope, for that final unimaginable scenario of defeat. 

"Students," Erik murmurs. "Yes, of course." But he does not move, nor does he seem willing to let Charles loose. 

 

"If the wards are down, it's all but finished," the Elf prince mourns. "But I can get the children out before they take the inner keep entire." Getting out, of course, is nothing compared to finding a place to _go_. When Acidalium is lost, the Elvish Kingdom will be, too. This is the last of the ancient holdings, from a house long out of favor. It possessed as recommendation only its defensibility, and it's extreme location to the south. It's at least a week's march from the now-lost castle at Phlegra. No one had ever dreamed that any sorcerer-- even one as powerful as the Dark Lord-- would dare the wrath of the Elder gods and take the direct route _through_ the Plateau of Leng. There is no one to seek shelter from, for-- thanks to Kurt's high-handed politicking-- there are none willing to offer it. 

He's leaning into Erik, into the strength of marrow and bone. Distantly, as if speaking for someone else, he frets, "If only the humans..."

The realization is like a dart of poison in his heart, and it sets his blood to pound. Horror and disbelief, the implacable logic of it all, all sweep through him like another wave of dizziness. There are no humans here-- not for the sake of the Elves, that's for certain. The Dark Lord's army has many halflings, bred with humans and otherwise; nereids with webbed toes instead of tails, dragon-lets whose scales have a fleshier tone. That he has not thought of this sooner alarms and shames him, even as he presses himself into his old friend's warmth. _That_ little element finally registers with his cognitive processes, as well. He can feel just how much damage the incantation has done by how quickly he wants to dismiss the very idea. What Charles feels, first and foremost, is the lack of expression on his own face. Lady Sharon's training coming to the fore in times of stress, just as she intended it, though she doubtless imagined more subtle court intrigues. She told him to think of it as a mask, molten silver-- the poise of an idolator's sculpture, reflecting back what the watcher wanted to see. By now, it's habit, and it is probably what gives him away.

 

Erik sees the change, and he is one of the few who could not be fooled. "'Had been' what, my dear?" he asks, eyes narrowing to the color of arctic ice.

The prince breathes out slowly, through his nose. His quarterstaff lies on the smooth tile past Erik's shoulder. The moment Charles' gaze flickers towards it, the other mage sets out his own hand. Lehnsherr's elemental affinity for metal easily overwhelms Charles' enchantment-call on his own possession. The adamantium grip fits neatly in the solider's fist, for his other hand is still fastened about Charles' wrist. 

"If they had been willing to stand with us," the scholar finishes. He keeps his voice light, academic. As if he has not just drawn the lines of battle into clear demarkation. No human-- king or, or prophet, or minister-- had been willing to pledge troops. Kurt had alienated them all long ago. Everyone had heard the rumors; the Dark Lord's burning desire for the treasure in Acidalium. Doubtless the humans had not felt they had much to gain in sticking their necks out for the prideful Elves. Especially since their defeat might actually sate the Dark Lord's thirst for victory. 

"Indeed, they are as much slaves to 'purity' and propriety as the Elves are," Erik rumbles smoothly. Slowly, rhythmically, his thumb caresses the articulation of his prisoner's wrist. Knowing a thrall is being attempted only helps Charles so much. There is still a firm and powerful desire to adhere to the other man's inertia, melt into that warm embrace. 

"Is Shaw not a slave to purity, in starting all of this?" he returns hotly. It's no use pretending, now. How his old friend had loathed that false face, and all the delicate courtesan's manners Charles had acquired with it. 

"Shaw was a megalomaniacal fool," the soldier says dismissively. "He thought he could breed a god-body, a perfect vessel to tempt the Elder gods. As if anything in this sphere is pure enough for the task."

 

Once again, Acidalium's foundations shudder, as if she is at sea. Charles maintains his footing, angling his body away from his old friend's. He sees, briefly, a shark's smile flicker on Erik's face. Well he knows that expression, pleased and calculating. He saw a variation of it often enough when they were adolescents-- particularly that day at the fountain, when Erik pushed him in. 

"Here," Erik says gently, holding out the quarterstaff. "If the walls have been breached, would you not have your weapon?"

Charles makes no move to take it, though a part of him longs to. He _must_ be wrong, there must be some sort of explanation. Faith and logic war in a way he is no longer accustomed to. Suspecting other's motives is a way of life in the Court; the only person he trusts completely is Hank, whose love of obscure lore has banished the desire for power. Emma is his friend, yes, but she is quick to jab at any exposed weakness. He's never figured out if she thinks she's making him stronger, or if she genuinely enjoys tormenting him. He certainly wouldn't want to put that theory to the test. His searches Erik's face frantically, waiting for some minor variable to change-- turn a conquerer back into a savior, instead. 

"You _know_ there's no treasure here!" Charles tries instead. That there's no confusion on the other's face sets his heart to breaking again. It's like having bits of glass rubbed into flesh. "Why would you let Shaw come this far, take this many lives, if you could stop it with a word?"

"Shaw is dead." The words are cool, almost clinical in their detachment-- but oh, that smile! Like a wolf remembering a particularly juicy kill. "I stabbed him, and pushed him into a pit of ravenous fiends. He was still screaming when they began feasting on his heart."

 

Charles looks down, as if he can't quite absorb the revelation. In a way, that's true-- but it will have to wait for later. Right now, he is looking at the endless tile floor, the moon-and-sun mosaic of the forgotten princess' court. There aren't any vases, any wall scones with decorative weapons or statuary-- nothing he can use in lieu of his staff. Face lowered, he glances up in quick, frantic bursts. A long handful of heartbeats, and he has almost given up, when he notices the elaborate sun embossed on the wall opposite. To it's left are the three sister-stars that once heralded a time of living sacrifice, for even the Elves were barbarians long ago. 

"Charles, look at me." It's almost a croon, and the prince cannot even make a pretense of resistance. Those ever-changeable eyes have the nerve to look earnest, pleading, as they circle one another. Both of them cagey, waiting for the other to make a false move, and entirely too familiar to fall for a bluff. Erik holds out the staff again. "Take it," he encourages, "we'll find your students. Defend them, if we must."

"To what end?" the scholar asks faintly. Now their positions are almost reversed-- his own back is to the wall the with sun mural. Carefully, he steps backwards with bare feet; Erik cannot quite hide the quirk of his smile, a perception of victory. "Am I to trust them with someone who'd cast a geis on an old friend? A _thrall_, of all the tainted things!?"

"To make it easier on you," that deep voice soothes. The warrior moves one hand in what would be a caress, if he were close enough to Charles. Soon, he will be-- a the prince's skin already feels sensitized, waiting for the touch. "I knew you would defend your people to the last, no matter how they've treated you."

"It's not _me_ I'm worried about!" And there it is, baseboard against the back of his ankles, a few artfully swirled 'rays' of light digging into his back. In a burst of anger so fresh and raw it takes the scholar himself by surprise. "You were my _friend_!"

"Am," Erik purrs, closing in. One hand goes to Charles' shoulder, warm and alive like a brand of holy fire, even through the silk of his robes. Lehnsherr tosses the quarterstaff away with the other, reaching instead to cup the prince's cheek. "Aye, and after all these years I could scarce have imagined a better reunion-- you, rushing into my arms." His smile is tender, longing. "I am your friend, Charles."

"_Indeed_." Normally he dislikes sarcasm-- the sound of it in his own voice is too much like Sharon's hauteur. What else is there, in this case? Short and banal, back to school-yard taunts. "I'm sure you'll have nothing but my welfare in mind when your Dark Lord attempts to press me into his service. Mages often die, when unwillingly bound."

 

Erik _laughs_; honest, boyishly pleased. It's like a teardrop in an already full glass of lunacy-- the final pebble whose weight begins the avalanche. Everything Charles knows is burning; it will be soot and ash, unrecognizably and irreversibly changed. He's almost ready to set on the warrior with his well-kept nails alone, he's so hopelessly angry. It's clear Lehnsherr sees this, for he calms himself quickly.

"I'm not laughing at you, dear." The solider shakes his head, another chuckle escaping. Charles shrinks back against the wall, perhaps a bit theatrically, and manages to get one hand behind his back. 

_'Oh, nameless princess,'_ he prays, watching the firm line of Erik's mouth with fascination. _'Have the proclivities of your ancestors. Be as blood-thirsty as they all say you were.'_ There it is, under his hand-- the center star can be pressed inward, unlocking the mechanism beneath. 

"It's just," Lehnsherr continues, darting forward just a bit, incongruously kissing the tip of his friend's nose. The scent of cedar is hypnotic, deeply soothing. That coppery baritone is the only thing Charles can hear, even over his own heartbeat. It seems to weave itself in his mind, pulsing with warmth; a depth of feeling that is not entirely new. Unconsciously, Charles' own face tilts up, lips parting as if aching receive. Erik's words are almost a little warm puff of air; "I've missed your confidence, your faith."

 

"You see, Charles… I _am_ the Dark Lord."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary  
>  **Phlegra** \- the plain where Zeus struck down the giants for final victory.  
>  **Acidalium** \- from Greek mythology. The fountain where Venus and the Graces bathed.  
>  **Leng** \- from Lovecraft. A terrible continent lost in the Flood.  
>  **Chryse Planitia** \- Greek, 'golden plain'. Also an area on Mars, to the north, where one of the Viking landers took photos.
> 
>  
> 
> ***HUGE THANKS TO LITGRRL20, JENNIFERC77, and OTHERS WHO POINTED OUT OMISSIONS***  
> The author begs your patience for her baka-ness. ^_~;;


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N** : First off, I have to thank you guys for your forbearance-- both regarding the errors in the last chapter, and the length of time between posts. RL had my slowly digesting in its dark and sour intestines, but I've effected a (probably temporary ;-0) escape! I owe particular gratitude to JenniferC77, LitGrrl20, and everyone else who pointed out the mistakes last time around. This version has been proofread, I promise. Any remaining errors are solely the fault of the author, who is so anal she can't stop tinkering with things until the very. last. second. Also, huge, huge thanks go to JKMo-- you gave me some excellent food for thought, and it has made this a better story. Actually, everyone who's been kind enough to comment has helped immensely. I really appreciate you taking the time to read my story and, if I could trouble you just a bit more to comment, I would… do the crazy Russian dance with Azazel! (*grins at JKMo*) That's what I would do! ^_~
> 
> **TW:** For safety's sake, I have a broad definition of dub-con-- Charles is not in a position to give informed consent about anything right now. He actually hasn't been for a while, as my delightfully perceptive readers have noticed. So, warning for unauthorized soul-bonding, unauthorized medical procedures (past), and the Elves generally being a fucked up lot. Also for Erik being zealous, handsy, and quite prepared to rain fire down on anyone who even looks at Charles the wrong way. We'll throw in a warning for non-linear narrative, 'cause I'm like that.

_(Sometimes, there is more safety in story than in memory._

_Stories provide delineation. One begins at the beginning; events follow in sequence, a design emerging from conflict, revealed at last in the dramatic climax. At its close, the weave of any good tale is tied off with a neat, if intricately inscrutable knot. They lived ever after, the curtain closes. Amen._

_Memories might have more beauty-- or terror-- but they were ever so difficult to grasp. Like a flash of colored light in crystal, or tiny pieces of stained glass. Ephemeral, but possessed of more than one sharp edge._

_**"It's all right, little one. Don't be afraid."**_

_That young contralto voice _cannot_ be Charles' first recollection, but it comes very close. More arresting, certainly, than the pallid disinterest on his mother's face, or the diffident professional touches of the nannies that preceded it. Oh, he was not a neglected infant-- he was heir to the House Xavier! There was a cradle of woven silver, the finest swaddling, fairy gifts bestowed upon his Name Day, and lullabies recited dutifully when he fussed. At almost a year old, Charles had never the less become quite accustomed to not being seen. Instead, he was _observed_; an objet d'art, or some bauble from an exotic land. He knew this, with the intuitive knowledge of a being growing mostly in the quiet of their own head, and he learned to slip away from his minders without quite being aware of of what he was doing. He had no particular aversion to their company… it was only that the outside world was wider, more full of sound and color, than the quiet nursery with its endlessly dripping water-clock. The surrounding gardens were a riot of shape and shade, endless forests of flowers to his tiny frame. His mother's sprawling chambers, too, had many corners and crevices in which an enterprising toddler could hide._

_Then came a single, playful mishap. The memory is so vivid partly because it springs initially from fear. The infant Charles was also very used to the safe, antiseptic environments prepared for him. It's just a little pin-prick, though. The bitter makes it sweet, for there came the voice that spoke and the solemn green eyes that finally _saw_._

_**"Where did you come from, Little Maus? Are you lost?"** )_

 

 

Now that same, beloved voice is speaking, burnished with time and strength, but still known in the very fibre of Xavier's being, "You see, Charles, I _am_ the Dark Lord."

That such a beautiful sound should cause such pain! Distantly, the young scholar is aware of the cool stone against his back, the crumbling mural and the star-shaped mechanism giving way breath his fingers. His instincts were correct, it seems. Like the beauty of that fabled princess, the regal austerity of the great hall hides its own bloodthirsty secrets. He doesn't know what exactly he has set in motion and, at the moment, he doesn't quite care. If simple oblivion opens to swallow him whole, at least it will stop the prince's pain.

 

His heart hurts. The Lady Sharon, never shy about sharing her opinions, had always maintained that the notion of a 'broken heart' was itself the height of foolishness. She never had much patience for romanticism, but that sentiment she found offensive in the extreme. 

A pity, Charles thinks presently, for he knows now that she was wrong. Feels it in his gut, with all the horrifying intimacy of the fatally wounded. The breaking is a process, an on-going act, catalyzed by those dreadful words, and Erik's inescapable calm as he pronounces them. Not a tearing or a rending, but a thunderous crack, as living flesh shatters when frozen solid in one ruthless instant.

"Erik…" There is a faint groaning in the stonework floor, but Charles barely hears it. His own voice is a pained hiss. "Erik, no."

 

His old friend shakes his head slightly, strong fingers gently skimming through Xavier's hair. His touch is so careful, as if he is trying to trace the hints of auburn in each lock… the very antithesis of destruction. His other hand rests against the short hem of Charles' robe jacket, grip hot and pulsing even through the brocade. Soothing but implacable, as one would hold the wings of some rare and priceless bird. 

"You lie," Charles says. It should be an accusation, but it comes out as a plea. And isn't that a story, too? Deny me once, twice, but only the truth-- that charmed third-- counts. 

 

"Why should I lie," Erik murmurs, "when the truth already hurts so much?" His lips quirk in a tired smile, but he is calm and unrepentant. He takes a breath, seems about to speak again, but the words are lost as Acidalium shudders with another grievous blow. The walls of the gallery shudder, even as the echo of the cannon dies. Over his captor's shoulder, Charles can see a huge stone dais, rising from its concealment in the mosaic floor. It is roughly half the height of a grown elf, and it is exactly what the prince supposed; an altar for sacrifice, and thus of no help to him at all. Still, he nurtures a faint flicker of hope-- he can still hear the sound of stone scraping against ancient stone, echoing from the far reaches of the hall. If this is where the princess laid out her victims, there must also be an entrance for her monster to feed. 

 

Charles reaches up a seemingly tentative hand, as if to return Erik's caresses, and then quickly drops to his knees. The move is very sudden, and it works only because the wall itself prevented the other man from completing their embrace. He rolls to the side with the kind of agility gained only through years of practice-- it is more a move of ritual dance than combat, but he isn't in a position to be picky. The silk of his robes slips through Erik's fingers, but the older man is just as fast and clever. 

The solider abandons the attempted grip, instead crouching briefly and springing upon his smaller prey in a tackle. It's powerful-- knocking the wind from Charles' lungs-- but very controlled. Erik lands on his back, cushioning the fall even as he tightens his hold. In another heartbeat, he has Charles rolled underneath him, pinned with solicitous arms, legs, and the firm weight of his hips. Distantly, there is one final loud thud of basalt masonry. The scholar tries to crane his head, ascertain which shadow might hide his new and only escape.

"Clever," Erik grins sharply, having absolutely no right to sound so pleased. "Doubly so, even. I thought you always swore you'd never dance for the Court."

Of all the damned things, Charles flushes, caught. "We say many things when we're young. We don't mean half of them."

"Perhaps," the older man concedes. "But then, the more things change… the more things stay the same. Your penchant for secret passages, for example." He's created a very neat shelter-- or cage-- for Charles with his own body, and the prince is suddenly very much aware of just how much strength and vitality adulthood has bestowed upon his friend. Erik is like the sleekest of rock-cats, smooth and watchful, all coiled muscle and power. The diffuse winter daylight plays through the tiny windows high in the gallery, so that he looks beautiful and arrogant and every inch the continuation of the boy who used to wrestle Charles with such ease. 

 

'Bad choice,' the scholar reproves himself faintly. Through those same windows, he can hear the sounds of more trumpets-- the Elvish bowmen are signaling to fall back and hold the final line. The wards have fallen, and now probably the outer mortar walls as well. Charles reaches for the well of tranquility inside, the pool where his magic lies still and ready, trying to feel for other mages nearby. Surely Hank sees the immediacy of the threat, and will assist the children without waiting for Charles to show. The lightning-song of Ororo is still in the eyrie, but there's a brilliant ruby flicker of Jean's spirit--

 

_(The impression is instant, and utterly visceral; as the fluidity of water packed into a powerful wave. It is a story, yes-- one he's heard in many voices, facets of the same gem. Edie told it, of course, but also Jakob, and even Lady Sharon. The later was always more than willing elaborate on Charles' eccentricities, how exasperating he was as a child. Even before he could walk, he was such a fast little thing-- and here, she would roll her eyes. Always scooting about, wobbling on hands and knees, slipping away from his minders and out of sight._

_Edie's version lacks that implied rebuke. Her voice is one of fondness, humor and-- though it took Charles many years to realize it-- a hint of earnest sadness._

_**"Poor little thing. Who do you belong to?"**_

_There he is, barely bigger than a fox's kit, wedged in the intricate railing of the garden balcony. Lady Sharon's chambers are quite a ways away from the main palace in Chryse Planitia-- even as Brian's wife, there was an air of 'mistress' in the way she was discretely kept to the side. Charles is alone, having crawled far further than he meant to in pursuit of delicate, wind-blown leaves. He's caught and struggling, only making it worse in his infant's fear and pain._

_**"Shh, I've got you."**_

_The warmth he felt then has not dwindled with time. It is sewn into the very folds of his heart, the kinship and affinity. Erik is the first-- and perhaps the only-- truly voluntary friend he's ever had. A kindness given without motive, ambition, or deceit._

_Later, Edie will playfully remind Erik that the little elf is not a lost kitten-- he does, eventually, have to go back home._

_This isn't a memory, it's a story. Therefore, it's impossible for Charles to remember the very young Erik whisper against his own plump cheek;_

_**"I don't see why not. I found him, after all."** )_

 

Erik's magic is all around Charles, veiling him away from every other mystical impression. It should feel as though he's been dropped unceremoniously into some foreign environment-- a fish trying to swim in fire-- but the lack of fear and pain is perhaps the most surprising aspect of all. Instead he feels safe, calm as a dreamer waking naturally from a deep and fulfilling sleep. This is no geis, no mere thrall spell meant to coax or seduce. So much more powerful; a remnant of the heathen past, the decadent blood-wedding communion of gods and heroes.

"What--?" he gasps, but the shock is all intellectual. Emotionally, he _knows_ this, and his own manna soars, rising to twine with that of his captor. He feels more vibrant and _present_ than he ever has in his life.

"Thank you for your attention, dearest." The soldier only sounds half-teasing when he adds, "You know I do not like to be ignored."

Charles flexes his power frantically, trying in vain to collect enough presence of mind to begin the weave of a spell. Most humans-- and lay Elves-- think magic is supernatural, somehow above the regular order of existence. In truth, it is exactly the opposite, for the ineffable power is what remains from the very act of Creation, imbued in all the vessels of the world. Even inanimate objects have a faint echo-- a 'ki'-- like the faintest outline in a very dark room. The whole of the world is a tapestry; strands of living power, dim impressions of majestic mountains and streams, and the bright threads of those initiated in the Art. That is why so many weaving metaphors have worked their way into occult jargon. It is simply the easiest way to visualize what lay just beneath the surface of 'reality'.

 

Neither plane is truly present for Charles right now-- he is cocooned only in the warm, ardent sense of his friend, who has grown more powerful than he ever could have guessed. It's not simply Erik's gift, but the whole scope of his sorcerer's education and the very spirit animating his being. This is what Charles teachers meant, when they whispered-- fearful and scandalized-- of one wizard consuming another. It _should_ feel alien, terrifying, the blackest despair and the yellowing of an infected soul. 

Truthfully, Charles is a key, embraced by the lock it was made for. Thrumming audibly with the pleasure of sliding all the way home. The depth of that rightness is staggering, wholly and terrifyingly beautiful. A darkness brighter than light. 

 

_(For one breathless heartbeat, he sees the calm, copper strata of Erik's mind. An endless labyrinth of shapes and angles which, despite their ruthless order, adhere to no physical or geometric law. The nexus is bright, shining bronze and gold, familiar as the lines of fortune imprinted on his own wrists. Newer growth branches from that incandescent core, though, augmented with new spires of chill silver and merciless steel. For one absurd and thrilling moment, the scholar thinks of yet another story-- the ironwood hedges surrounding Briar Rose. Many tried their hand to save her, but the brambles would only part for one. Instinctively, Charles knows this intricate morass of metal would do the same for him, sharp edges blunting and pathways smoothing at the slightest touch of his hand. All of it is polished to painful gleaming, and the prince sees his own face reflected therein._

_**'I found you that day,'** Erik's voice murmurs, sounding just as it did then. **Wandered off while Mama was tending the Lady's precious yellow roses. You and I were were always rootless, restless-- at first alone, and then together."**_

_**"Yes,"** Charles can't help but answer, This is their own internal language, and there is no word for 'lie'. He was never so happy as when he roamed the marshes, Erik by his side. Sometimes it felt as if they could walk the length of the entire world. Sole citizens and rulers of vistas far as the eye could see. _

_**I knew you were special,"** Erik answers him with a rush of possessive affection. "I'd never seen anything like you." _

_And here is the little Elf-babe, tiny wings attempting to flutter in distress, face red from crying. Erik could have ignored those sobs, gone to fetch someone, or even turned away_

_**\--never!--**_

_at the sight of a creature with misshapen-- if oddly lovely-- faey wings. Instead, he approaches Charles like a young buck caught in a snare. Soft, careful words; a flow of reassuring nonsense, until fascination with the stranger makes the younger child forget his fear. As he calms, the muscles of Charles' wings contract enough that, with Erik's careful assistance, he is able to slip free from the trap. There's perhaps a hands-width between the riser and the marble walkway, and the prince drops with unexpected ease, landing on his bottom. He looks up at Erik with such an expression of perfect bewilderment, as if this is simply the final indignity that can be borne. Laughing, the older boy-- the halfing, son of the stone mason and an unearthly gardener-- kneels to reassure his new friend._

_He speaks-- then as now, innocent and mature tones mingling, **"See? I told you it would be alright."** )_

 

The scholar closes his eyes, ashamed of the saline that wells up under his lashes. 

"By all the demons in all their hells," the swear is rough, wet itself with tears. "Erik, **_why_**?"

"You called to me, and I came," the soldier says. A simple statement of fact, as though his is describing the motions of stars in their set paths. Charles shakes his head against the caressing hand, body trying to find traction, a place to begin levering himself free. Erik matches every move, curbing the attempted violence, making the struggle into something far more intimate. The smaller form goes limp, unwilling to let his fight be made into some sort of dance or coupling. He won't open his eyes or look at Erik, still as a wax effigy. There's a hot whisper against his ear; "You did not forget me-- how else would I have survived Shaw, and the darker demons of Kadaath? I would not be half so powerful without you, my love. Your thoughts, you manna… every time you wove a spell for me, wished for my safety or justice in my name, you were giving me a little piece of your heart. That is a kind of power Shaw could never fathom."

"Oh--," Charles chokes. He wants to blaspheme, take the unspeakable name of some Old One in vain, in hopes of being struck down. As soon as the words leave Erik's mouth, he knows it's true. Sympathetic magic-- the magic of the unconscious, which is the most dangerous kind. He has been feeding Erik's power almost constantly since they've parted, shielding Lehnsherr with his thoughts, fervent prayers and affection. Is it any wonder the Dark Lord's power outstripped even the most skilled wizards in the land? For it is not the strength of one talented sorcerer, but two. Charles himself-- an acolyte of pious Elvish studies-- has been practicing dark magic utterly without being aware of it. Was not his deepest and most selfish wish for Erik's well-being above that of all others? 

 

The soldier gathers his captive up, lifts him so they are once again both standing. The bindings of the elf's robe have come undone in their struggle, and the sash falls to the floor, unnoticed by either. Charles teeters a little, faint with the knowledge of what he's done. He is the traitor Kurt has always scathingly implied him to be, a signal fire drawing their enemy on with an irresistible pull. An unwitting source of power, and beacon, and heaven knows what else. He didn't sense Erik's presence earlier any more than one would sense the movement of their own lungs.  
Only if you're looking for it, only if you already know. 

" _Mikol libi_ ," Erik murmurs, in the language of his father's fathers. "I'm here now." He kisses away a few small renegade tears, then the delicate eyelids closed against him, only stopping when Charles utters a harsh, barking laugh.

 

"I--" Frantically, Charles tries to shove the sound back down. It isn't real mirth, it is fear and hysteria, guilt mired in the deepest quicksand. The other sorcerer only holds him more closely, and they sway a little, another dance. Blue eyes open involuntarily when Erik tilts up his chin, and the scholar has a moment to register the verdant concern in the other's gaze, before he is soundly kissed again. It is and is not like the first-- an event which Charles is still having some difficulty believing. Close-mouthed still, yes, but slower, conciliatory, something like the way Erik used to pet at his wings after a fight. A melting ardor, less vehement only because the perpetrator is more sure. Arms lax at his sides, the prince stands awkwardly in the embrace, stunned at the delighted way his traitorous body sings. Kurt was right again, he thinks with a wild sort of cynicism-- the Dark Lord indeed intends to swallow him whole. 

There's no doubt that Erik's aura yearns for completion, and a part of Xavier wants it too. It is in the emotional undertone of the kiss, the taller mage sending coaxing whispers of power, trying to persuade his captive to surrender and uncurl. Indecent and dangerous, and more tempting than Charles could ever have imagined. Almost of its own accord, he hand slides up to trace the curve of Lehnsherr's strong neck. There's some small needy sound-- it can't possibly be him-- and Erik groans as if in pain, the barest tip of his tongue darting out to play against the other's lips. Those wide, artisan's hands steal under his open robe, sliding around his back. The prince has a handful of seconds-- perhaps three drips of a water-clock-- for the realization to sink in, but it is already too late.

 

It really is like drops of water-- deafening in the silence of his own mind, creating a ripple in the mirrored surface. 

One.

At first, Erik's hands merely fumble-- he's doubtless expecting the silk wrappings Charles had begun wearing when they'd seen each other last. His maidservant did them up each morning, binding Charles' wings as female warriors bound their chests. It was only to keep them out of the way, was his mother's reasoning. They weren't strong enough for flight, anyway-- it was nothing. Really, he was lucky. Didn't he know that to the South, fairies of the islands bound their maidens' wings _and_ feet?

Two.

There aren't any bindings-- there haven't been, not for a half a dozen moons. You can't bind what isn't present, and Charles' shoulder blades always feel plucked clean these days. His stomach turns, then drops. He is ashamed of himself, and afraid. Long, firm fingers find the raised lines of scars. The healers promised, swore up and down they would heal cleanly, but they never did. 

Three.

Erik tears out of the kiss with a disbelieving snarl. Instinctively, the young prince tries to shrink away, as if warding off a potential blow. There's not much room to move, however. The embrace is almost painfully tight now, and he can feel his old friend's eyes on him. Charles looks away-- thats easier-- because he remembers how the one serving girl gasped, how subtly _wrong_ he felt the first time he looked in the mirror. He's made his peace with this, he tells himself. He always tells himself this, and will keep doing so until the day he finally believes it. Nothing was done to him that he didn't allow.

 

"Charles." There's no anger in Erik's voice, not at first. Just an aching sadness, like torn veins bleeding out into nothing. The older man sounds as if someone has reached roughly into his own gut. "Oh, Charles… what have they done?"

"It is well." Said quietly, and with rote patience. He says it enough in his own mind. "_I_ am well."

"'Well'!?" The grip becomes punishing-- Charles flinches, and Erik relents. He actually takes a step back, curling his fists as though they are mallets he intends to use for hammering steel. Those green eyes blaze, and another rumble ripples through the disused gallery.

 

At first, Charles thinks the enemy is just heaping on another onslaught, but it is not a blast from a cannon. It is deeper, far more fatal. Acidalium may be renowned for its white marble towers, great parapets carved into the limestone mountain, but the catacomb foundations are basalt. A dark contrast, and a highly magnetic one. The very seat of the keep entire is trembling with Erik's rage-- a fine but terrifying shudder. Not enough to bring the heavy arches down upon them, but Charles has no doubt many books are falling from their shelves, and warriors stumbling to find their feet. Behind Erik, even the altar seems possessed-- tiny chips of paint are peeling off the detailed sun mosaic, red and yellow, quivering as they hang suspended.

'Ochre,' Charles thinks, looking at the flaking pigment in frank astonishment. Erik's control has achieved an almost godly precision. His own quarterstaff-- which he had so foolishly discarded due to its adamantium grips-- begins to hover as well, shaking at the same speed as Erik's fists. He realizes, with a sudden numbness, that all the dragon-gates and hidden tunnels in world are laughable in terms of escape. He could run, yes. Perhaps if he were quick enough, clever enough, he might even make a little progress. It would all be meaningless in the end, just slack on a fine golden leash. Erik Lehnsherr-- his friend! his compatriot of marsh rambles and wooden sword fights!-- could bring the whole of the palace down around their ears. Leaving the people Charles has tried so hard to serve-- in spite of them and himself-- trapped under the rubble. Dead, to the last man, woman and child. By the heavens-- what if Hank has the children in the tunnels now, enacting their last-ditch plan?

 

"Who committed this… _sacrilege_!? Who had the audacity?" the metal-mage demands. His voice is the deathly calm of the still air before a storm. For a moment, the mask of anger cracks, "Charles, your dear little wings--" Whole swaths of red and yellow are curling up from the altar now, from the murals on the walls. "Give me a name," he demands. "Give me a name and I will erase it from this sphere, so that none will ever speak it for fear of the same fate!"

Mute, Charles shakes his head. There's a quiet terror in him, and more than a little self-hate. He was considered somewhat comely before (the kindest comment often being 'exotic'), but he is definitely mangled now. Without realizing it, he brings his own arms up in that now habitual self-hug. Before he can blink, he is back in Erik's arms. Charles buries his face against the firm chest and soft dragon hide tunic, responding instinctively to genuine empathy and sorrow. "They were useless--"

"They were _yours_!" 

"There was an accident, you see, and--" The words come, without even a pause to breathe. "It wasn't done to-- it was supposed to show that I--"

"Charles," Erik croons. He's holding his young friend much the way he used to, long ago. What Edie called a bear hug-- as if he can hide Charles, or act as some sort of shield. "You must tell me who did this. It makes it much, much simpler, you see." 

Charles blinks up at him, trying to process yet another spark of nonsense in a day that has turned his whole world on its head. 

 

"If you don't," the Dark Lord continues reasonably, sounding almost sweet. "I will have to assume that everyone is guilty-- by action or indifference-- and I will hear their screams as I rip Acidalium from the very face of this mountain."

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith's (Boring) World-Building Notes  
>  **Acidalium** \- from Greek mythology. The fountain where Venus and the Graces bathed.  
>  **Kadaath** \- from Lovecraft. A forbidden region-- thought to be in the Antarctic-- in the cold wastes, home to something even star-spawn fear.  
>  _Chryse Planitia_ \- Greek, 'golden plain'. Also an area on Mars, to the north, where one of the Viking landers took photos.   
> _geis_ \- from Irish legend. A curse, vow or magically augmented command.  
>  _ki_ \- the Japanese term for the spirit inherent in nature-- not just humans but rocks, lakes, mountains, trees, ect. The Chinese call it 'chi', with much the same principle.   
> _Mikol libi_ \- Hebrew. 'My heart', or 'depth of my heart'. + **basalt** is magnetic and has, in large deposits, occasionally caused hikers to become lost and disoriented when it interferes with their compasses. *wonders if Erik interferes with airplane instruments* ;-)  
>  + **ochre** \- is hydrated iron (III) oxide, and one of the earliest pigments used in art by primitive man. Yellow and red are the most common 'earth' shades.  
> +note about the use of the term ' **spheres** ': according to Jewish Mysticism, the Tree of Life (which is female) is composed of ten _sefirot_ , or spheres, and an eleventh one, which is hidden. Lower spheres contain things we see in the physical world. The soul itself is capable of rising to higher spheres, but this of course takes time, practice and enlightenment. So, in my hodgepodge world-building, magic would take place in the interim spheres between the physical and the highest plane. Or… *hand wavy* something like that. ^^;   
> (One day, I am going to get struck down by lightning for misuse of Jewish education. ^_~)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** This is a comparatively short chapter, and not one I really planned on. But it _demanded_ to be written, and it come out pretty seamlessly, so… who the heck am I to argue? I just work here. ^_~ This chapter is dedicated to **avictoriangirl** , whose beautiful and thoughtful cover for this story may be found [here](http://avictoriangirl.tumblr.com/post/45806283606/omg-im-on-a-roll-heres-an-ebook-cover-for-love). Also to **professor** , for all the tinglingly brilliant dub-con!Erik, especially "Treasure" and "Masterpiece". 
> 
> **Trigger Warnings For This Chapter:** Here there be dragons! (Actually, that's the one thing that's _not_ in here. ^_~) Magickal dub con, though nothing of the sexual variety yet. Again, Erik is very handsy. Involuntary medical procedures, institutionalized abuse, abuse of authority and mistreatment of children. The Elves are a bunch of hypocrites, and Shaw is a sadist. I promise the latter is dead, though. Dark, gratuitous fluff (don't know how else to describe it) and emo p0rn.

( _'If wishes were horses,' the common wisdom intones, 'then beggars would ride.'_

_It is a human saying, but one Charles is familiar with from his youth. In Chryse Planitia, that lost land of of Ago, little effort was made to separate the children of the various races, despite the more rigid stratification of adult life. Why, indeed, expend the effort? A human playmate would have grown and perhaps perished long before an Elf was old enough to become an attache in the Court, or give their first vows as an acolyte. The smaller faey population might remember-- or even steal away-- old friends in the passion of their adolescence, but such feelings were often viewed as waning in the scope of a longer life. It was not uncommon to see mixed groups playing in any courtyard or field in the capital, various ages united more to match intellectual camaraderie than approximate age or size. The adults, no matter make or creed, put it down to youthful discovery and foolishness.  
It would be put away, as with all childish things._

_Charles thinks, now, that this appearance of peaceful coexistence also served the grown members of every society, bolstering their sense of superiority. 'See', they said to themselves, 'we are not Shaw. These divisions are natural, and our children discover that in time, as much in the order of things as the seasons themselves._

_He wonders, with the aid provided by distance and maturity, if this was not perhaps the source of the sad smiles Edie, thinking herself unseen, sometimes sent his way. She was more a mother to him than he can ever express, though she abstained from much of the advice and admonition most associated with their parents. What she did say stayed upon his memory, an intricate impression in stone._

_'Remember,' she would caution them, in direct contrast to the human aphorism. 'Wishes are dear, few, and filled with awful power. There is no light where they grow, which is behind your heart.')_

 

  
"Charles. You must tell me who did this. If you don't," the Dark Lord's words are at odds with the gentleness of his voice, "I will have to assume that everyone is guilty-- by action or indifference-- and I will hear their screams as I rip Acidalium from the very face of this mountain."

The young prince closes his eyes-- against the moment, Erik's earnest face, and his own tears. _'I'm sorry,'_ he thinks, though even he is not certain to whom he is apologizing. His own Elvish teachers, the memory of Edie, or Acidalium at large? Perhaps (selfishly, still) to the boy Erik once was.

 

"You will not," Charles says firmly, forcing the timing and evenness of each breath. "Author more misery in my name." His heart is beating rabbit-fast, thoughts as diffuse and quickly wrecked as straw set upon by flame. In the wildness of that panic, his own aura rallies; the sun breaking through Erik's iron gray storm clouds. "It was an accident."

The look Erik gives him is incredulous, and perhaps that is deserved. The stripes of ochre paint and the very corner stones beneath their feet have settled, though, once again lifeless. He doesn't know if the other mage is listening, or simply surprised by Charles' own affected arrogance. He only has half a mind for it, now. Getting a feel for the tide of Erik's manna against his own is a small step, but a crucial one. He can sense the others again, if dimly; the pressure of Hank's anxiety, the fear laced battle-readiness of Betsy, and the calm white of an Emma poised to strike. Rising above it is the buzz of Jean's scattered concern. She is the only one strong enough to have fully grasped his brief yet total absence, but he dares not reach out enough to soothe. Instead, he sends a warning flash towards Hank, 

_\--be quick, help the children, do not concern yourself with me--_

swift and tiny as a forest sprite's arrow. 

 

Erik's eyes are dark, his mouth the thin slash of a knife. "Did they teach you also, in the Court, to lie so freely?" He holds Charles a bit away from his own body, by the upper arms. Not painful, but also not yielding, despite the give and touch of living flesh. "Fifteen years under Shaw's reign," he continues quietly, "A captive pressed into service as a soldier, treated little better than a beast of burden or the lowest of slaves." 

Maintaining his grip on the young prince, he pulls roughly aside the armor doublet of dragonhide, and the collar of the dirty linen shirt beneath. The now unjeweled pendant-- Charles' token from so long ago-- gives a bare, tarnished gleam against the warrior's clavicle. Even in the dim light, Xavier can see now that it rests against vivid, diagonal scars. These lines coverage at Erik's sternum, and seem to run as one further down the strong chest. There's a brief, but vivid and potent image shared along their ebbing magicks; quiet suddenly, Charles knows the horrid line does indeed extend farther, having once split Erik from breastbone to navel as he screamed. Less pronounced, but certainly no less sickening, are the the regimented groups of scars that rest along the broad shoulders. The King of the Elves is Kurt Marko and, though the scholar himself has never been a victim, he recognizes well from servants the remnants of lash and its kiss. 

"Oh, Erik," the Elf murmurs, pained. He curses himself, but he cannot stop the hand that traces those dreadful brands, compassionate and soft. Charles feels himself to be a fool; this warrior has slain many of his kinsmen directly, and by order caused the death of yet hundreds more. Yet, this is still his brother in more than blood, the gentle tormentor and ardent protector of his youth. He's about to ask why-- after Shaw's death-- so much more strife and conflict could possibly have been necessary, but it is then Erik tenderly takes possession of that wandering hand. 

 

"I served under the Lord of Carnage," the present Dark Lord says. "Don't you think I know all about creatures who-- calling themselves doctors or healers-- exist only to break down the body like a mechanism? I know the feel of deliberate, 'scientific' violence."

"I am not lying!" Charles' own ire rises again, as well his need to maintain the present set of facts. "Yes, it was done as an operation, but only after the original wound." Traitorous, his own voice quavers, and he feels the tremulous threads of his control slip. It's terrible, the veins of ice that flow up along his insides. The memory of those touches, invasive fingers and shadows that ignored his cries to cease. Stubbornly, he rushes on, "The original injury was an accident!"

 

_(Second verse, same as the first. Who among the class is prepared to recite our present scripture from memory? For that is the purpose of litany, to reinforce the borders of reality._

_'Count,' says another voice, fetid and horrible. The scene is not of Charles' memory, but it just as vivid, swathed in red hatred and the grinding steel will to endure._

_The already battered boy, hunched in the center of the tableau, does not raise his head or respond past a ghost-dry, 'Yes, my Lord.'_

_'I've not decided yet, how many.' The hulking monster sounds idle, considering. 'Perhaps I'll stop when I see bone.'_

_'Be mindful!' A swoosh and sharp crack, and that's Charles again, definitely. 'Of your control! Of your standards!' Each exclamation is accompanied by its own blow, as the Elder Teacher moves up and down the rows. "We are the peak! Of civilization! In the entire land of Jord.'_

_The slight, pale form of an adolescent Xavier kneels on his mat, knobby knees together, hands clasped in the ritual contortion for meditation. He moves his lips, but does not give voice to the expected response; 'We must preside over our minds as an unruly kingdom. True magick requires control.'_

_The teachers-- all of them, even the youngest acolyte in training-- know just how to hit Charles between the shoulder blades, so the pain will lance hot all down the nerves of his bound wings. 'We do not indulge in base connections of the aura and flesh.'_

_The prince receives his allotted strike.)_

 

"Was it, Charles?" Lehnsherr inquires, his whisper like that of the boy in their shared vision. He presses forward, aura redoubling its attempts to engulf Charles-- it's overwhelming, though the emotion behind it is clearly intended to cosset, bend and sooth. Voiceless, it murmurs to him, trying to coax out the truth. The Elf automatically takes several steps back in retreat, but even the strong physical hands will not let go. Never mind the delicate strands of power trying to gain hold.

"They asked!" That's his own voice, insisting, but it sounds petrified and hopeless even to the scholar's ears. It seems that his chest is too small for both breath and heartbeat. 

"_Did_ they?"

"They asked!" Charles cannot see what he is backing towards, though he feels a creeping chill, and Erik will not let him loose. If he cannot bring his own arms up shield, then he will hunch his own small frame over them. "I said 'no'. They asked again, and I said 'no'-- no, and no, and please no, and then finally I said yes!"

" _Yafeh_ \--" Erik moves to embrace Xavier once more, but Charles _knows_ that word, and he cannot stand to be mocked. He screeches, like a bird crudely felled by a stone. Frenzied, he beats his old friend's hands off with an utter lack of purpose or aim. 

 

"Don't!" the Elf exclaims, almost a wild thing now. "Don't touch me! I asked them not to touch me!" Except that he wants _those_ arms, the embrace that will shelter him against the pulse of a sympathetic heart. And he knows he cannot have it, above all else.

The cold wind hits him like a physical blow, curving in around his shoulders. He's backed himself away from all hope of clever passageway or last minute escape then… and into the small closed, dead-end courtyard that would have served for the princess' final bloody spectacle. The wintery gloom doesn't afford much more illumination than indoors, and it is clear Lehnsherr's sorcerers are still showering unseasonable snow upon the nearly-vanquished citadel. In a distant, academic manner, Charles can feel the cold dew crush and melt between his bare feet and the cobblestone, feel the tiny flakes alight on his lashes and cheeks.

"Yes, Charles," Erik puts his palms up, though he is still trying to get close. "Of course, darling. It's all right." 

"Is." He takes deep, shuddering breaths. "Not."

 

_This_ must be Erik, a living memory, the boy whose voice he still hears in the far-off country of his dreams. All conciliatory sweetness now, as if he is trying to charm Charles out of hiding, or soothe him over the howling of simoons as they sheltered down for the night. "It will be, darling. You know I'll make it so."

"You can't," the scholar says sharply, jumping as the bare branches of a frostbitten tree scratch his arm. He's in the center of the little courtyard now, where raw earth is allowed to gather about a single, arthritic tree. The bark is black as pitch, shiny as the eyes of death beetles, and why not? It's a Carrion Tree, still clinging to life despite the centuries since it was last fed. Victims of sacrifice would have been buried here, to nourish the twisted ebony. It looks like a bony, palsied fist reaching for the sky. Now its branches are weighed down by the strange snow, the few remaining berries all the more vividly crimson in contrast. Charles is loathe to touch it, but he still grabs a more solid branch for support. 

 

The tree is old, thankfully-- far older than to only remember being fed by a vain tyrant's whims. Its _ki_ is dim and dreaming, though it rouses a bit of interest for this odd new punctuation in what has been a long life of neglect. That helps. Charles closes his eyes, takes deep lungfuls of cold, bracing air. 

_'I am Charles, son of House Xavier,'_ he thinks, more for his own benefit than any actual attempt at communication. And then, in the voice of his mother's proper little admonishments, _'You may retreat-- everyone has to, eventually. Messily even, though you should try to avoid that part if you can. Flee slowly-- grace comes from indifference.'_

The tree projects a faint, lazy sense of inquiry and then settles. It is ancient, beleaguered and so very tired. All the bloodshed of senseless conflict today, and still not portion for it. Charles is of no consequence to the tree, and that helps too. The scholar is always at his fiercest when he feels isolated and alone. 

To Erik, he says finally, "You must know we've reached a point where this cannot be fixed."

Very quiet, "I know. And I'm sorry."

 

Vivid blue eyes fly open, and find the Dark Lord kneeling on the cobblestone, in faint dusting of snow. The prince tightens his internal grip on the new found calm, though he can't quite hide his surprise. Erik has never apologized-- he has always barreled forward with an endless intensity, as if he can make up for his errors or bewilder one to forget. 

"It's my fault," Lehnsherr reaches out briefly, though his move is not reciprocated at all. The look on his face is strange-- naked, hurt, but somehow wise. "Oh, Charles. I should have come sooner." His eyes warm a little at the confusion this inspires-- now they are the green and churning waters of a hot spring. "I thought to do you honor, ask for your hand in all proper manner to offer peace, first."

"That's not--"

"But I have no respect for the laws of gods, elves or men-- I should never have considered it. If I had not tried for some veneer of civility, perhaps you would not have suffered so."

"You're not making sense," Xavier tells him calmly. "No one knew the identity of the Dark-- … our foe until just now."

"Indeed," Erik admits. "I asked for you as the mage and monster that deposed Shaw, not as the son of a stone mason." 

"No one ever told me--"

The warrior seems not to have heard, "I should not have let them know I wanted you at all. Charles, Charles… There's more going on here then you know." He inches forward, slowly, still on his knees. It should look ridiculous, but all the young elf can see is the stealth of a tiger in the grass. "Let us come to an accord."

 

Surely the look Charles gives speaks volumes. He is bewildered and barely maintaining his center of gravity, in no position to take the time to sort out honeyed lies from truth. Indeed, he can barely comprehend the scope of the communion he's just uncovered, this bond he and Erik have created largely through raw feeling and subconscious will. 

Lehnsherr hurries on, "Would you have offered yourself, your hand, if you had thought such an alliance would bring peace with the Dark Lord?"

They both already know the answer to that question. "I would have been terrified, but I would have consented."

"A sacrifice for the people who maimed you." It's a brief but bitter snarl. "So, we shall proceed from there."

"You'll spare Acidalium?"

"In so far as it remains to be spared, yes. I will set my regent to occupy its throne-- so that the people understand they have been conquered--"

"You will protect my students?"

"--and owe obedience." The soldier does bow his head, conceding Charles' request. "And I will take a tribute with me, back home."

"Holding me ransom will not give you any power over the Court." Charles' smile is wry, but the only moisture on his cheeks now is the melting snow. 

"Hang the Court! Figuratively," his adversary placates. "I want you."

"To what end?" Unconsciously, the younger being licks his lips. Erik's gaze is fixed there quite suddenly, and the attention is devouring. Slowly, a sweet burn-- like a drifting phoenix feather-- settles in the cradle of Charles' hips. _'That's not you. It's the influence of this… this living thing between us,'_ the prince thinks, and knows he must now play for time, so that he may study and look for ways to unravel. 

"Dearest." The look Erik gives him lies somewhere between aggrieved pride and disbelief. 

"You're my brother, Erik!" It's an honest protest, but inside he's thinking that they are at a dead draw. 

"Will you claim you have no affection for me?"

"I said no such thing! I--"

"Is peace not your wish?"

 

_(Oh, the dangers of wishing! Yet Erik and Charles grew up watching their human companions voice these little desires constantly, spending as if the supply were endless. On birthday candles, clover leaves, dandelions and shooting stars._

_Her boys needed to be more careful, Edie would occasionally remind. It was doubtless something fretted over by many parents, especially those of children with magickal gifts. Whatever their differences, Erik and Charles were both composites; born to the Art, with unpredictable results._

_And is this where, separated, they somehow once again find each other's orbit?_

_Like a sigh, like a child's blood-promise in the marshland's setting sun. **Yes.**_

_With all manner of lands and customs and wretched tormentors between them, Erik holds on. The pendant is gone from him, confiscated by a Shaw who cannot guess at its significance, but it is only a physical focal point. _Charles_ is where warmth, and light and safety remain. In the cool, sterile halls of Acidalium, Charles bends. He bends, and bends, but does not break. He holds Erik's memory before him as a talisman, against all the hours when he is deemed too inquisitive, too difficult, too _different_ by his teachers and his friends. Edie said that the most ardent desires grew in the dark, which was true. Voicing them was what cast the glow of day upon them._

_Wishes could take strange shapes, when exposed to the light.)_

 

 

"Yes," Charles says, and holds out his hand. Lehnsherr recaptures it quickly, stroking it between two of his own.

"You agree then, and give yourself to me willingly."

"More or less," the ghost of a wry, cheeky smile. Charles is bound up _with_ Erik, not _to_ him. As long as he maintains this slender, almost insignificant space between them, all might not yet be lost.

Erik returns with his own smile-- a familiar, pleased grin. "Then it is only fitting I do this on my knees." His grip is as unbreakable with one hand as with two and when, his other hand returns from his pocket, he is holding an intricate silver ring. For a moment, the prince almost huffs at such a trifling formality, before he sees the tiny star sapphire set within. 

The jewel from the pendant-- not lost at all. There's a quick needle of fear in his heart, but he cannot free his hand.

 

"More Charles-- always more." His suitor is passionate, devoted in his triumph. The ring does not slip on the prince's slim white finger… it _moves_ to embrace it, tiny delicate bands interweaving like a lock. "I bind you with your own token, given freely and in honest affection." There's humor and naked earnestness in Erik's aspect as he borrows the words, "To love, protect, and cherish."

"You tricked me!" There's a morass of delight and seductive heat all around Charles, now. The snow might as well not exist at all. By the red heavens of hell, he sounds not so much horrified as seized by joy. In the grip of ecstasy, as if Erik has closed his hand around the scholar's very soul, cupping it like an ember. 

 

The world swims-- the bliss is endless, and possessed of no direction. The tiniest pressure from Erik brings the smaller form stumbling into his arms. He has to fight it, but there's no where to take hold… all gleaming metal and quicksilver fur, slipping through his fingers like a coo. The binding of his magick and his will should feel as abhorrent as a shroud being sewn up around him, but the only thing Charles can think of is the Haven Flowers in the forest-- the ones that close their petals gently around sprites, sheltering them from the autumn chill. 

He's tumbling down, into that embrace, and to some point deeper still. It is a dark place, yet safe and somehow lit rose-gold. Erik will ply Charles with sweetness there, and care for him always.

 

"Be at ease, Little Maus. I promise, everything will be quite different when you wake."

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith's (Boring) World-Building Notes  
>  **Acidalium** \- from Greek mythology. The fountain where Venus and the Graces bathed.  
>  _Chryse Planitia_ \- Greek, 'golden plain'. Also an area on Mars, to the north, where one of the Viking landers took photos.  
>  _ki_ \- the Japanese term for the spirit inherent in nature-- not just humans but rocks, lakes, mountains, trees, ect. The Chinese call it 'chi', with much the same principle.  
>  _Yafeh_ \- Hebrew. 'Beautiful', masculine form. (the feminine form is 'yafa')
> 
>  
> 
> + _'by the red heavens of hell'-- cribbed from G.K. Chesterton's 'Ballad of the White Horse'._  
>  +Lady Sharon gives an extremely liberal interpretation of Margaret Atwood's quite excellent advice in The Blind Assassin; 'When in doubt, go to the powder room, but go slowly. Grace comes from indifference." Truer words. ;-)
> 
>  
> 
> __


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Notes** : Hahaha, I'm so nervous posting this. ^^; Assuming anyone remembers this, you're probably shocked your own self. I swear I've rewritten this thing a hundred times, but I made myself a promise that I would finish a new chapter before this ridiculous hiatus reached a year ( _a year_! X_X''). And I did it, with one day to spare. *sheepish* This is dedicated to all the kind and wonderful readers who continued to leave comments and kudos while I got my act together. I'm especially appreciative of **JKMO** , **avictoriangirl** and **calmyourmind** , but every last one of you is amazing!
> 
> **Trigger Warnings:** More magickal dub con (hush, I know that's what you're here for *wink*), but nothing explicitly sexual yet; Erik is still handsy and not playing fair; issues with abusive medical procedures and consent; the boys are emotional dunderheads.

Awareness comes to Charles in careful increments, components of color and feeling-- not the usual remorseless thrust from dreaming at all. It presents itself slowly, as shadows of the future might rise in a scrying bowl. Indeed, he has seen such phantoms take shape when tooled by his magick, though water is not the element of his Gift. He might mistake this for a premonition, if not for the poignancy of color and the soothing white mists that moving to embrace this thoughts. 

_There is no darkness, here_ , those insubstantial tendrils whisper, all loving coils and careful murmurs, as a guardian might shield their precious charge. 

 

 

Here are his hands, which lay still and stunned in his lap. Here is the shape of the red cushioned chaise and its fine ebony frame, as they cradle the careful ivory of his own spine. A shaft of mulled amber dusk falls through the west window, casting warmth on his cheek and light on the manuscripts in front of him, which he must have been in the process of illuminating. 

He has just woken, though-- he's sure of it. Accusations of daydreaming are not unfamiliar to him, but the prince is far less prone to them than his teachers would like to believe. Rather, he closes his eyes to block out the choreographed movements-- all the painful little ceremonies of elegance which are the Court's lifeblood!-- of those around him, that he might consult the darkness of his own inner mirror. 

No matter the Element of their gift, all mages require stillness, an almost unholy quiet, in the center of the self if the chaos of the outer world is to be faced. Sorcery is a type of second sight, and therefore dependent on mortal imagery. The well of one's _manna_ has always been a unique and powerful organ; he has heard it described as the heart of a glacier (Emma), a volcano's forge (Jean), or a great, ponderous library (Hank, of course). These are generalized images and may not, strictly speaking, be entirely true. He's such approximations with his students and a few like-minded scholars, but the Source is generally a very private thing. Charles himself is guilty of dissembling, though he is not completely aware of it.

At his own center there is a mirror, yes. But it is not bright or made of glass, as other's might assume. Like obsidian polished to brilliant midnight, it has been his cherished treasure and necessary weapon all at once. The bare, gilt edge of it is a snatch of cradlesong in a boyish, cracking voice; the frame is metal worked by inexpert but loving hands. It is the magick of intuition-- of vaguely glimpsed shadows-- that guides him in these moments, though he sometimes does not understand (or allow himself to remember) what he has seen. 

 

Charles breathes in and out slowly, a half-conscious meditation exercise. Every moment that has come before this one has vanished. He may as well have sailed to the rim of the world, peering over into waterfalls cloaked in their own white spray. He _must_ have just wakened, and from a sleep that saw his spirit wandering far from its material husk. All the strange images of prophecy and nocturnal rest are too readily available. Is he not aware of that snag, that skip in the weave of consciousness? The young scholar feels as though he has fallen-- briefly, but with great velocity-- between the spheres of the cosmos, which is always a danger when one traverses their dreams.  
Or nightmares. 

 

 

 

A wildness grinds in his chest, suddenly suggesting the later. His memory lacks immediacy, steeped in unnatural calm. The very lack of fear and suspicion breed, in this child of the Court, those very same anxieties. He looks again at his hands, which are unharmed but somehow strange; the left adorned with a ring of silver lacing and incredible, blazing blue. His tongue has that weighty, determined feeling, as though it wants to speak some terrible truth he has forgotten in his sleep.

_('I promise… everything… little maus…')_

It won't come, whatever it is. Charles bites down on the recalcitrant organ, gnashing his teeth until his temples ache, but he cannot for the life of him remember any event which has preceded or caused him to be where he is now.

 

It is evening, in chambers familiar to him from the time his infant's eyes could focus. Walls of polished quartz and marble, a mosaic of sea-glass tiles beneath his  
 _(cold, bare?)_  
feet. Across the way, his bed dominates the room with its totem-pillars and rough-woven winter silk hangings. Books and pots of herbs and bottles of luminary ink, in such profusion that they must find homes in shelves built even into the high platform and great headboard. Beyond that, the glass-latticed window Erik so often climbed up (or coaxed Charles down) is thrown open to the great Imperial piazza below. 

It frames the full glory of Chryse Planitia in the final, autumnal rays of the sun. 

 

All of these things-- loved and known and non-threatening-- present themselves unwaveringly before Xavier's eyes. Every angle, every hue (amethyst night, copper fields, carmine trapped in reflection) firmly insist on their reality. They put Charles at ease (and why shouldn't they?), but they also seem to rekindle the firestorm held _in potentia_ , within the prince's very bones. 

( _mages often die, when unwillingly bound_ )

The room is warm, despite the open window-- there is a brisk fire in the hearth and plenty of hangings along the walls to trap the heat. Never the less, a thin finger of dread marks its way down Xavier's spine, lingering as a harpist would over each and every vertebrae. It suddenly seems very important that he seize the book on the table before him, complete-- discover?-- what is written in its pages. The tome is much larger than those he usually works with, and already in its thick leather casing. The leaves cannot be laid on the slant of his fine scrivener's desk, where they might be seen more easily. Charles has just put both hands out to cup and lift the bindings, when a strong hand comes to encircle his wrist. 

 

 

"Erik." 

At first, he does not recognize the large yet elegant fingers. It is his own voice, startling and far away, that seems to drive home the idea that the tall form behind him is, in fact, his childhood friend. The warmth is the same, though it seems silly to think that a person's natural heat might have texture and flavor. Never the less, it envelopes the prince, followed swiftly by Erik's aura. Together, these powerful impressions mute the world. The 'ki' of the fire and stone in the room, which Charles had begun to reach for seem suddenly pale and unimportant.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Erik says, keeping possession of the elf-prince's wrist, making a bridge of their arms as he moves fully from where he has been leaning over the back of the chaise. His smile is slight, a mere quirk of an angle. Charles bites his lip, torn between fondness and the fluttering of _something_ within the bone-cage of his chest. 

Yes, Lehnsherr startled him, but the scholar would never have said as much aloud, for there was a time when he would have been confronted with the rolling thunder of his friend's laugh. Erik delighted in making him jump, sometimes-- tackling him in the soft lawns behind the palace gardens, or scooping him over his shoulder as though the younger boy were still an infant in his charge. 'Too slow!', he'd say or, 'Don't fly away, now' and then hold Charles too tightly, as if he could anchor him to the earth. As ever, the Xavier heir leaves his feelings for Erik largely unexamined, like light seen through glass-- it seems merely bright until close examination, and specific mirrors, separate out each fascinating blend of color. He calls this thing between them 'affection' because, from the very beginning, both their families had named it so. Brothers under the skin. Tender guardian, playful adversary, secret-keeper… these cannot be parsed from one another. 

 

The Erik before him is almost an unknown; familiar eyes and boyish smile set in the features of a grown human male. A warrior, half dressed for battle. No gauntlets or scabbard (and certainly more clean-faced), but with a thick dragon-hide breastplate and thick maroon cape. The prince is not _surprised_ to see his friend thus, but he is not relieved, either. It seems right that they should be here, together and now grown, but also like a blessing that has been mislaid. Within the space of heartbeats, his friend has joined him on the low couch, drawing Xavier close with unselfconscious ease. Charles finds he fits-- much as he once did-- just in the curve of Erik's strong shoulder, so that he can feel the beating of that metal-forge heart. He puts his own hand against it, so involved in this minute but essential proof of presence that it takes him a moment to realize Erik has done more than draw him into a friendly embrace. 

"Where did you come from?" Charles wonders. He must have spoken aloud, because that same cello baritone answers him. 

"Charles, when did I ever leave?" Spoken with infinite calm; Erik's eyes and boyish smile set in the face of a man. Iron-green and gray, powerful and churning as those storms that draw lightning from the very ground.

_(I knew you… I knew you by your eyes. And your eyes, too, gave the lie away.)_

Lehnsherr continues, the twist of his lips wry but fond, "How could I be parted from you? I could no more wander this sphere without my heart in my chest."

This seems at once eminently reasonable, and the very height of folly. But that's the way the story goes, isn't it? Every iteration, every twist of the tale as told by Edie or Charles, always kept those two little boys together. They were not meant to be apart. Where else would Erik be, if not in Chryse Planitia, at Charles' side?

 

 

Seemingly satisfied with having reaffirmed this truth, Erik falls silent once more. Certainly, Charles can sense it is the pivot on which his world turns. Though the prince, too, feels their friendship necessary as breathing, there is a taint of sadness in his own thoughts which he cannot quite ferret out. Erik's hands are strong, but achingly gentle as they caress the smaller form; hands that know well how to temper metal and magick to their will. He strokes along the line of Charles' shoulders, then over the expanse of neck to where the scholar's pulse is increasing to a pounding gallop. Xavier finds himself observing this touching and scrutiny almost as if he is outside his own form-- only the thin thrill of pleasure, the seeping warmth of that strange/familiar body anchor him in. Erik is slow and careful, and may in fact be holding his breath. They cannot have been apart long,

_(it has been **forever** )_

yet the older man's attitude is that of an idolator long held away from his shrine. The tightly reigned avarice does not make sense to Charles; it jars against what (he wants) those white mists encourage him to believe. Erik has always been indulgent with him, particularly when he was very young, but it was always accompanied by half-belligerent rivalry. As if, though far smaller, the young elf somehow had the power to force his friend's hand. 

In this same, half-awed manner, the metal mage lifts a single finger to trace the shell of Xavier's ear. Slowly up the curve that has no practical difference from that of a human, up to the elegant tip that is such a marker of the Elvish race. Charles' own ears are somewhat less narrow, owing to his faey mother. One war-roughened thumb drags over the wall-tapered cartilage point, and the prince's entire frame shivers like struck crystal. The ears of an elf are quite sensitive, even in youth; as an adult, such caresses are decidedly erogenous. With a separate will, his own hand comes to trace the shape of Erik's more human lobe. The other man laughs-- a sound filled with genuine fondness-- and thus immediately shatters the meditative silence in which they have been examining  
 _(relearning)_  
each other. Charles shifts, mostly to distance himself from his own confusion, but Lehnsherr will not let him go. He throws his arms around the prince-- the bear-hug of old-- and and tumbles them both back against the cushions. Now their hips are flush, but opposed; Erik holds Xavier so that his own body offers Charles a place of relief and respite, rather than the chaise itself. The intimacy of this touch, and the sudden awareness of all those that preceded it, bring quick flames of blood leaping to Charles' cheeks. His friend seems fascinated with this, petting the warm flesh with the back of a single knuckle. 

 

 

"Promise me something," Erik asks, less a spoken question than words kissed against the princes' temple. His free hand encourages Charles to stay right where he is, stroking faintly at the stems of his wings. 

Charles shudders, suddenly cold. He remembers his bare, almost-frozen feet; a black tree hung with snow whiter than the alabaster spires towering above. He bites his lip harshly, and the pain gives him something to focus on. There should be pain, for he has scarcely been without this constant companion for more than half a dozen moons. 

_(Since…)_

"Promise me you won't hurt yourself," Lehnherr's embrace has grained fervor-- not painful, but very firm.

Very much intending to question the odd request, the prince instead finds himself murmuring agreement; "I promise." 

He's almost warm again, now. If he burrowed closer to his friend, if he rested his eyes for just a moment…

"Promise me you will not fight or harm those I set to protect you." 

This is ridiculous, and frightening all at once. It isn't right, but it's not _wrong_ , either. Erik is at once the most safe and terrifying thing he has ever known, and he cannot reconcile the two without focus. 

"I promise," Xavier hears himself say. At the same time, he rears up, grinding his well-kept nails against his temples. Focus; the pain is focus. That's something Emma taught him. To ride that sharp edge, that impossible space between blue flame and candlewick. She'd smiled at him, with that mix of derision and sympathy, and asked him what they were, without their scars.

 

 

Strong hands grip his wrists-- they work so hard to be gentle, but they cannot hide their intimate apprenticeship with war. Erik is calling his name, panic quavering underneath caring entreaties. Charles opens his eyes to find himself looking over Erik's shoulder, rocked closely in a way that may comfort the older man more than himself. 

"You were hurting me," he bites out, accusing. Not pushing Erik away, the scholar never the less lets his hands go limp at his sides, no longer returning the embrace. The room has changed in subtle ways-- little things that make it more terrifying and alien. The hearth is dead, as if the fire had never been; the marble walls and pillars have become horrible glass tessellations, sharp to the touch. Charles can see the imperfections in the dripping, blasted sand; his own sense of vulnerability, willed to take a weaponized shape. While the divan itself remains unaltered, a thick, impossible layer of soot has come to coat everything, as if some great

_(engine of destruction)_

fire has been at work.

"I'm sorry," Erik says, over and over again. It is heartfelt and frightened, the second apology the prince has heard in a very short period of time. Once, it might have won him over, given Lehnsherr enough space to build the illusion again. 

 

 

  


 

Charles, however, has spent over a decade in a garden choked through with weeds and lies. There is a thing within him that cannot be broken, trained, or coaxed. Has he not had to fight, be twice the scholar and twice the sorcerer, in order to gain a fraction of the approval so freely given to his purebred peers? Be charming and demure, to compensate for your eccentricities; be humble and amusing so as not to intimidate with your intelligence. So many imperatives! Like dancing in a hot, crowded ballroom; passing from hand to sweaty hand until you cannot find your own point in time and space. 

( _ **I** am the one telling this story!)_

He is not _this_ Charles, whole and unscarred amongst the glow and riches of his kingdom's stronghold. He feels Erik attempt, once again, to pet at his wings were they lay folded beneath his silk tunic, but this is a lie. There are no nerves there to react with the faint shivers of pleasure the prince _seems_ to feel. There is no curve of muscle tapering to hollow, keratin-lined bone. A phantom, as beautiful as it is merciless. 

The true Charles is wiser; used and having learned, defensively, to use in turn. He has been chipped and throttled by hands that said 'this is best' or 'because you are one of us'--

_(and when it seemed they could pinch and squeeze and stifle no more, they **cut** …)_

\-- that promised no harm and then did it anyway. These were supposed to be his own people, his own family. Yet he had refused to do anything but care for them in return, convincing himself that anything else would only give them more power.

 

 

Charles is fully capable of ending this story right now. Lehnsherr may be more practiced, less scrupulous, but it is the scholar who possesses the raw power. Having flung himself away from Erik, he lies sprawled on the floor amongst the cinders. The scrivener's desk has been over-turned, glass bottles shattered and book face down in the dust. With a glancing thought, he could bring this whole sorry illusion up in spiritual flames. Xavier is angry enough in this moment to destroy both himself and his  
 _(beloved)_  
brother, venomous enough against the concept of his own helplessness. The fact that he was played, and thrice at that.

"I did not mean--" 

" **Silence** ," the prince orders. He draws himself up, just as battered and ill-clad as he was in the courtyard of the carrion tree. Self-murder, and all the collateral damage, is not an unattractive prospect, nor one he is unfamiliar with since the loss of his wings. It is ironic, then, that Erik has now made this option doubly impossible. 

_(you've bound us both, now)_

A whistling fills the room, a wind that has nothing to do with air. For this inner world bows to Charles' hand just as much as it does to his adored foe. Not an illusion, or not _merely_ an illusion; it is a bridge between two psyches. The most terrifying thing about magick is that any creation the sorcerer wills into being-- no matter how beautiful, seductive or grotesque-- must still have its roots in the truth. He is a learned enough scholar to understand that he is just as culpable, that Erik could never have come to be such an integral part of Charles unless, on some level, the mage had _invited_ him in. 

 

_(Long ago and far away, yes… but isn't it silly too, now, to pretend? Because Hank frowned and fretted and tried to grind new herbs; Emma looked uncomfortable and vaguely guilty, working at a soothing bedside manner-- but none of that was what you wanted. Your students were kept safely away, your own _mother_ never lifted a finger. So you lay there, on the healer's white palliasse, staring at the stained glass window until the blur of pain made the black lines look like dungeon bars. Don't lie, there's no need for that here. There was one name etched in your soul long ago, but you laid there and deepened the grooves as though writing your own epitaph.  
Erik. Erik. ERIK.)_

 

 

"You won't hurt me," Lehnsherr says as the soot and debris stirs around them. He seems to have regained some of his mental footing, in spite of the powerful aura amassing around the younger man. He stands from the chaise, which attains a brief copper color and then quickly erodes into rust. They had been so intimately entwined before, and Erik's skin had never felt anything but healthy and whole. Charles can see the lines and ridges of scarred stitching as they slowly reappear on the warrior's chest-- that terrible surgical 'Y'. 

"Are you so sure?" Xavier asks archly, as if his heart is not aching. He can bluff if he has to, even-- and maybe especially-- with his dearest friend. His aura manifests about him as a phoenix's wings, blazing. He is not a mage of fire though… and it is funny, the way he always specifies what he is _not_. A learned behavior, to deflect what makes others uncomfortable. Not fire, nor water; not earth, wind, or Erik's beloved metal. Charles is a mage of that sixth and highest point, the seal that Solomon used to brand upon all demons his will.  
It is often, over-simplistically, called _**spirit**_.

"I am," Erik replies calmly, with a faint sadness the scholar will not acknowledge. "Because I couldn't hurt you."

"You certainly tried."

"It was not my intention--"

"All hellfire upon you intention! That is only a third of magic, and you know it!" A royal, if somewhat practiced sneer, flickers across Charles' features. "Would you have taken me as you did your lands of conquest?" His own complicity falls by the wayside, a casualty of his quest to wound. "Held me as some enchanted _trifle_ , violated--"

 

"Enough!" The snarl on the other's face is clearly directed inward, at some memory, but it frightens Charles never-the-less. The metal-mage's umbra is also coalescing; it is the faint impression of a dragon's taloned wing-span, as if drawn in smoke and acid. Less coherent, but full of a menace that is not Lehnsherr's alone. It is not _in_ Erik, but it is _with_ him; curling, superficial yet intent, about the edges of his manna. Feeding on the distemper, as vines choke the life from trees, or grind great stone monoliths. 

"No man who dared-- no man who ever tried to touch you so would live." The spoken words are accompanied by a crack of thunder, and something not unlike a shapeless roar. It occurs to Charles, distantly, that Erik never did anything beyond the almost adolescent fumblings, which they had both seen illustrated in even in puritanical, Elvish woodcuts. "No man," the dark mage reiterates. "And that includes me."

"Prove it," Xavier presses, ordering himself not to be squeamish when the wound has already been made.

"By your command." The wave of Erik's hand is at once sullen and defiant. 

"You extracted Binding promises from me." A deep breath, though for calm or resolve the scholar knows not. "I'll have the same from you in kind. I won't negotiate, as we did before, so you can hold the--" he doesn't quite catch himself, "--other things I love as hostage." He locks his gaze with those green eyes, wishing those orbs had somehow had the decency to change with time in the same manner as height and hair. It would be easier, for he still sees the darling boy he so adored and resented within. "Prisoner or no, we'll be equals in this."

"Yes." 

An eerie quiet has overtaken the ruins of what once appeared as Charles' old rooms. Shards of glass settle; ash drifts down in the air as mournful snow. Outside the now-warped lattice window, Chryse Planitia has been given over to an endless wasteland of white, brooded over by mountains whose horror is palpable even at this extreme distance. 

"And…" Charles says, kneeling barefoot in the cinders. He studies Erik's face carefully, before reaching out to scoop up the tome he'd had-- in all aspects of the illusion-- right at his finger tips. It's just a prop, like the room and the phoenix wings, and even his own internal mirror. Magick is ephemera; ether, psychic emanation, and all manner of things one cannot name. It isn't a key, but why should it be? He's been so often betrayed by keys and locks, and he doesn't have do more than look in Lehnsherr's eyes to know the same is true for him. 

 

 

  


Xavier opens the book-- and thus his true eyes-- and leaves the ruins of their shared dream. 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith's (Boring) World-Building Notes:  
>  _Chryse Planitia_ \- Greek, 'golden plain'. Also an area on Mars, to the north, where one of the Viking landers took photos.  
>  _ki_ \- the Japanese term for the spirit inherent in nature-- not just humans but rocks, lakes, mountains, trees, ect. The Chinese call it 'chi', with much the same principle.  
>  _manna_ \- (fantasy RPG) the source of magical power; the soul-energy exerted by casting a spell.  
>  _Solomon's Seal_ \- the hexagram of Judaism. Also known as the _Magen David_ , or Star of David. As Solomon's Seal, it has a rich history in alchemy and mysticism, representing the constituents of the universe. According the (pseudo) apocrypha, it was engraved on Solomon's ring when he built the first temple. Absolutely no cultural or religious disrespect is intended by this reference. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. If I could trouble you just a bit more to comment, or even to leave kudos, I would very much in your debt. I promise I won't take so long for the next chapter. ;-)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeyy... look at that, I actually managed to produce a new chapter in eight months instead of twelve. X_x'' I am so lame. As always, I hope you enjoy the story, and I would greatly appreciate any feedback/kudos/plushie shark!Eriks you should choose to leave. I really appreciate you taking the time to read at all; you guys are awesome!
> 
> **Additional Chapter Warning** : for mentions (but not actual) magical blood-sharing / sorcerous vampirism. 
> 
> In which Charles puts his foot down and lays some ground rules, the boys have issues at each other, and Erik still adheres to his very own _special_ version of logic.

  


_('Just look, Charles. Just **look** at what you've done!')_

 

Lessons received in childhood are often the most difficult to unlearn, Charles knows. He has used that to his own ends, as a Master Teacher, trying to wean his young students away from attitudes and habits that might tempt them down the paths of darker magic. His own Elvish instructors were fond of the aphorism, _'A griffin must be broken before one can fly'_. Sometimes, when he wakes in the dark with pain rooting from phantom wings to dig down under his shoulder blades, he wonders if they thought they were doing that for him-- making a space for the saddle. It's an unkind thought, but that doesn't necessarily mean isn't true.

 

_('Ive missed your faith, Little Maus. You see, Charles-- I **am** the Dark Lord.'_  
Ah, ah, so many painful things are true!)

 

Descending to the real world is not like surfacing from a dream. With some effort, Charles finds his body as he withdraws from the illusion of Chryse Planitia and the idealized vision of the childhood he and Erik shared. His _anima_ and _manna_ return with vigor, flowing into the physical clockwork of vein and muscle and bone. It is more difficult than retreating from meditations or travel on the astral plane, for it is not the (admittedly treacherous) realms of magick he leaves, but the world he and Erik wove solely-- only half-consciously-- between themselves. A world of two. More perilous and tempting than the higher spheres for the sense of comfort, of _rightness_ about it, even in the detritus of their fight. Withdrawing feels like once more accepting the absence of a limb, and it would be harder to leave if Charles weren't so angry.

__He's supposed to be beyond that sort of deep rage and betrayal-- he can envision the stoic faces of his own Master Teachers, as white and blank as the very walls of Acidalium, telling him so. Annoyance, irritation, and aggravation are all examples of petty emotions, no more than a raindrop in a smooth-as-glass sea, and expected of any mortal being. The goal of an acolyte's training was not emotional amputation but a pervasive serenity, they said. The ability to put everything back in order, quickly and within your own self, so that one's personal magick is like a bloom caught forever in that static calm. Evlish theology dealt the same way about devotional love, fear, sorrow, and curiosity. Dances and Court couplings are all a reflection of this-- ritualized minuets in which each motion is a part of the larger aesthetic masterpiece. A refined rhythm, not (and here, there would be the faintest of sneers on pale lips) some sort of wild _'faey_ gavotte'. _ _

__No sedate _andante_ now, not for Prince Charles of the Xavier line. His pulse is a quadruple-time thunder in his ears as he sits up, feeling that last wave of vertigo as his body readjusts. He finds himself on a low couch heaped with furs, curved to cradle the body like an undulating wave. A breathless white stretches above him, canvas draped between sturdy poles. A tent, doubtless deep within enemy encampment. Erik sits near by on a stool, holding one of Charles' hands in both of his as carefully as one might trap a butterfly. _ _

__The prince snatches his hand back, inarticulate with a raw and almost bestial desire to be free of this yoke, the latest in a lifetime's worth of promises, strictures and prohibitions._ _

__( _'An adept of *your* age! Really. You should be ashamed.'_ )_ _

__

__

__'Incandescently angry' is a melodramatic turn of phrase, something from the ancient Barbarian Epics. But no, he is not the flame, which flickers even at its most uncontrolled. Rather, he is a constant beam of light and madness, a pillar of lava on its relentless march. Erik Lehnsherr-- _the Dark Lord of Nod_!-- stares up at him with his now-empty grasp still raised. He's wise enough to be afraid, but he is also quite clearly enraptured. The look on his face is revelatory, and Charles knows that even now that his friend wants to grapple with him, to disguise a love-dance as a fight and bring every childhood scuffle to its inevitable conclusion. _ _

__

____("Yield," he hears the young Erik whisper hotly against the tip of his ear. Soft grass beneath him and his friend's gangly form above, those apprenticed hands seemingly as unbreakable as the metal they shape and now mimic. Charles kicks and bucks, using his wings for a little extra force as he tries to throw Erik off. He hooks a leg around the older boy's weaker left knee and they roll as Lehnsherr tries to maintain his grip.___ _

___"Just say, 'I yield, Erik'," his friend offers coaxingly, even as the halfling faey manages to get a hand free. Charles cannot fight and talk at the same time-- Erik is far too absorbing as a foe-- but he shakes his head violently, holding back a sniffle. Why must his brother be so *mean*? In a moment, he will have broken away long enough to make a true escape, running with a quick and almost gliding motion over the summer grass, towards the rosebushes and a secret garden tunnel. His wings are too weak to hold his weight for flight, but they allow him to sprint far more quickly that the other, typically more athletic, boy._ _ _

___Eventually, he will elude his opponent and hide in the marshlands with his wounded pride for most of the day. As sky darkens, he will hear Erik wandering amongst the reeds calling to him in a voice that's grudging but contrite. They'll both be caked in mud by the time evening comes, but he still gives Charles a ride home on his back, muttering, "All you had to do was yield.")_ _ _

__

__"By all the gods in all their everlasting hells!" he spits presently, giving Erik a withering look. He doesn't want to think about the past. All the same, the sense of betrayal, of the falsehood in their both friendship and brotherly bond, does make the anger easier to hold onto. The heat won't be stifled-- it makes everything shimmer like the tent is inside a forge, and it is _transformative_._ _

__Erik's mouth begins to form a word-- most likely Charles' name-- before he is knocked violently off the stool. The earth doesn't shake beneath their feet, because Xavier's magick is not born of terra firma. It is not really the air wavering with heat, or the water in the nearby pitcher boiling. Oh no, for this little halfling is a mental mage._ _

__It is, for lack of a better term, a _reality-quake_. _ _

__

__

He can't keep it up for long, and he doesn't want to. In fact, he didn't _intend_ to do this at all and-- as the force of his _manna_ dissipates-- he feels a shame and regret more choking than the exertion he just inflicted on his body and soul. 

_('Just look. At. **That** '.)_

__He knows better than this; he _is_ better than this. _ _

___('Yet you have wrought the damage of some feckless infant, no more able to control his magic than he is his bowels. Is this all you have to show for decades of study? Just look at what you've done! We should have pledged you as a courtesan rather than waste wisdom teachings on you!')__ _

__That's Kurt's voice, vowels as meaty as the fists that go with them. It's an old memory, only an echo, for many years have passed since Charles' control last faltered in any significant way. It will never be long enough, and now the count must start over. The last time had been just after the Court fled from Chryse Planitia. Fear had been a silent member of the exiles' party and, though they'd reached relative safety, a particularly violent nightmare had swept out of the young prince's mind to find physical manifestation. The city was fallen, and Lady Sharon had not coddled him by pretending they might ever return. Those left behind, she advised him, should be wished dead-- for that was the kindest fate possible under Shaw's reign. If Charles prayed, it should be for Erik's merciful end and passage to paradise. He hadn't been able to bring himself to do it, to let go of that last ember of possibility._ _

___(Ministers of Grace help him, but he'd held out hope for Erik's survival even as the battle for Acidalium began. A wish fulfilled with left-handed irony, and another harsh lesson.)__ _

__Instead, he'd dreamed of his friend; a terrible, nocturnal vision of his brother in all but blood, reflected in an obsidian mirror. Yet the mirror was also a pool in which Erik was drowning, uncharacteristically calm and stoic. The dream had told Xavier then that his friend would not die for want of air, but from the red worm tunneling, _eating_ through his heart. Oh, mysteries of the conquerer worm!-- and he had woken screaming, magic palpitating wildly around him. _ _

__

__Charles hasn't thought about that in years. His mind shies away from the image of the jeweled parasite from his nightmare. Even at that young age, he had known from his more esoteric delvings that it was a symbol for the false Elder Gods and their longing to take the universe back to its constituent darkness. For is not Erik the great conquerer now, having taken up Shaw's mantel? What promises had her made-- and to whom-- to slay the one they said none could kill? Xavier's gaze darts about, unwilling to look at the other man, dressed still in dragon hide breast-plate and heavy cape. Refusal to meet his captor's eyes gives him little to look at save that for which he is responsible. To his shame, the damage from his angry _manna_ is as bad, if not worse, than it was so long ago. _ _

__What was once a well-appointed-- if rather utilitarian-- white officer's tent has become an uncomfortable hodgepodge of the nightmarish and the mundane. Most laypersons, human and elf alike, tend to consider magick only in the context of a sorcerer's deliberate spell-casting. The three folds of any incantation are Formula, Intention, and Will. Without the first two, the sheer raw power of a wizard's inborn talent manifests however it pleases, influenced only by his or her under-mind. Rage, fear, the heart's vulnerability, and the child all carry within them win over logic, and none of those things can responsibly guide such force._ _

__Consequently, the soft dais Charles' body had lain upon has retained its furs and blankets, but otherwise transformed into sculpted ash. As soon as the white mage takes an astonished step back, the base crumbles into a formless pile of soot. Xavier can see signs of his own aggression and sorrow everywhere. The sturdy cedar tent-poles are now coiled in black vines whose leaves gleam with an unpleasant wet appearance, and whose few buds appear to be tiny white teeth. The white canvas drapings nearest to him have been scorched with invisible fire, leaving uncomfortably circuitous trails of nonsense patterns, and the flames in the little wood-burning stove have turned to jagged flint. There is-- _was_ \-- a washbowl and pitcher on a small table nearby, and Charles has a momentary flash of Erik tenderly bathing the captive's bare, mud-caked feet. The pottery is in shards now, and the water it held has changed to a thick carmine substance. Strawberry jam, from the smell of it, but Xavier is still disgusted with his subconscious for the obvious visual metaphor. It's dripping off the table now, splashing in little 'plinks' on his otherwise unmolested quarterstaff. _ _

__"Some of this *is* my doing," Erik offers gently, climbing to his feet. The scholar has no doubt the dismay and horror are plain on his face, but he is not consoled by Erik's mutual responsibility. If anything, its all the more distressing, for it is very difficult for Charles to tell the difference between his magical signature and Lehnsherr's. The white rabbit fur, heaped in a random corner and dotted with albino eyes which still somehow _blink_ \-- that's definitely Erik's. But he knows this only because of their boyhood together, not from any difference in mystical texture. No wonder his traitorous friend had taken him by such surprise earlier! Their magick is as interconnected as mirrored twins in the womb. _ _

__

__The quake was theirs; an engine fueled by Charles' rage. United in consciousness as they returned from their inner world, _this_ is what the Dark Lord and the Xavier heir can author without any focus at all. Together, their wild power has accomplished in minutes what should have taken days with deliberate spell-work. Such rampant sorcery usually requires careful pacing, to avoid overexertion and spiritual sickness-- or a whole coven of mages working together to spread the burden around. It's one thing to push or manipulate one's own element, and another entirely to cause tangible manifestations from whole cloth. _ _

__Charles knows Erik's _manna_ is much depleted, for his own is low and striking him with deep physical fatigue and hunger. If they were not still connected, if he were not bound by the promises Erik seduced from him, now would be an excellent time to escape. Nauseous, the prince thinks of the long nights spent sleeping on his stomach, his back a flaming field of agony, while he mourned the loss of his wings. How deep a secret resentment must he have conceived in those dark watches? Irrational, unfair-- for did not the healers save his life? The hunting accident could be blamed only on many-eyed Fate, and he'd been told numerous times that any attempt to salvage the delicate appendages would have most likely resulted in his own death. _ _

__The Elvish healers had asked and asked, trying to make him see reason, and finally they did what was necessary despite his delirious protests. Only gratitude on his part would be appropriate-- but, as Edie often reminded both her boys, weeds grow in the lightless spaces behind the heart. Meanwhile, Phlegra fell along with myriad human holdings, and Acidalium had braced for the killing blow from the Dark Lord.  
From Erik._ _

__

__"What have we _done_?" Charles asks, words falling from his lips with almost no sound at all. He had only begun to grasp his unconscious betrayal in the catacombs, and in the courtyard of the carrion tree. Now, the sheer weight of it smothers him, so intense he almost expects his bones to creak. _ _

__Erik does not answer right away. Instead, he gazes at the maggots which have manifested at the prince's feet. Xavier may use them frequently in healing and herbology, but he has always secretly loathed them for their texture and blindness, which frightened him as a boy. With an almost negligent wave of his hand, Lehnsherr banishes them, leaving poppies and a few rubies scattered before Charles like offerings._ _

__"Don't be wasteful," the scholar snaps, even as the conquerer's pallor increases to a seemingly impossible degree. Charles rubs at his own throbbing temples and ignores the other's tired, conciliatory smile. As if he can be won with such trifles! Though exhausted, they are both still standing-- Erik from sheer stubbornness, and Charles because he is still clutching desperately at his anger._ _

__

__"You are not responsible for my actions," the Dark Lord says at last. Then, with a look that mingles pride, respectful fear and desire, "You are so _strong_ , my love."_ _

__"You contradict yourself," Xavier replies cooly. "It is my strength that has fueled your victories." After a beat, he adds, "I am not _your_ anything." He regrets the opening as soon as he speaks, but the endearment is just so incongruous coming from the man he thinks of as his own brother._ _

__"But you _ **are** mine_ ," Erik hisses reverently, making no attempt to disguise his satisfaction. "By your own admission, and by your own token." He takes several steps forward, as one might approach a wild horse and, because the captive refuses to back down, they end up in very close proximity. The soldier takes Charles' hands, clearly meaning to kiss them, but the elf snatches them quickly away once more. Despite having seen it in their shared vision, Charles still finds the sight of the ring on his left hand-- his own star sapphire set in Erik's intricate metalwork-- quite jarring. He knows that, unless he can find some obscure and fantastically ancient bit of spell craft, he will never be able to take it off. _ _

__

__"Let me ease your conscience then," Lehnsherr says lightly, as if magical morality is a subject for afternoon tea. "You kept me alive," his tone gains feeling, darkens. "You shielded me as Shaw continued dragging me towards ever-darker sorceries and alliances. But," a faint, rueful smile, "you were by no means the only one contributing magick to the Free People's campaign. I have other benefactors."_ _

__"Such as Loki?" the scholar asks, thinking of the vibranium armor. "And surely you cannot call yourselves 'the Free People' without at least acknowledging the irony." He resist the obvious dig in regards to slaves._ _

__"Loki." Curiously, Erik says the trickster god's name more in the manner of a traitor than a patron. "Among others." And, before Charles can respond to this cryptic statement, he adds, "We _are_ free-- of Shaw, of those who cast so many of us out to die in the wilderness. We are shed of the dogma both elves and humans use to torture themselves and oppress the so-called 'halflings'. We hold no slaves-- can any kingdom of elf or man say the same? If possible cities we've taken carry on much the same, under my own regents to prevent uprising and attack from the flank. We barely even tax them." An eyebrow raises sardonically over those storm-squall eyes, for they both know Kurt was an absolute fiend for tariffs and levies, even before Lord Shaw's attacks._ _

__"A great comfort to the people you slaughtered in battle, I'm sure," Charles says duly. " _My_ people."_ _

__"Your people mutilated you," Erik almost roars, as if the prince needs reminding. He is suddenly hyperaware of his undone tunic-shirt and missing sash. "They spent years degrading you, telling you your power was unwholesome when it was the very thing they envied and feared. They hated every reminder that you were different, so don't tell me its a coincidence that the most obvious of those is now gone. If you tell me their treatment changed after we parted, I will not believe you."_ _

__"You don't know anything!" the halfling gestures to the whole of himself. "I am aware that it-- that it looks unnatural. I don't need you to remind me!"_ _

__Lehnsherr looks stricken, "Darling, I--"_ _

__"My power is dangerous," the scholar says more calmly, forcing himself to regroup. All that is gone is gone, and all that has been done set like red dye. Lady Sharon's voice echoes tremulously in his memory: isn't it better to at least _look_ like a whole elf than be an obvious halfling with useless wings? "If the Masters were harsh with me, it was because I needed to learn control. Look what I've done just now." Things got much, much worse after Chryse Planitia, but he'll be damned if he tells Erik that. All hearts are weighed against the unbiased feather at the end, and Xavier himself is just as unqualified to take it upon himself to judge others as everyone else is. Except, of course, that his high-minded morality apparently never truly rooted in the core of his being. Sweet fires of hell, he thinks morosely, how dangerous would he be if he held conscious grudges?_ _

__

__"Acidalium was my home, faults and all," Charles murmurs. "I have no other, and now it is gone."_ _

__"She has been wounded, but many a great city has weathered wars. You saved her from the worst destruction." Apparently, Lehsnherr finds nothing unwise in referring to a devil's bargain as some sort of heroic act. "Though," and here the evenness of his tone belays the glacier flint in his eyes, "I swear by the Nameless G-d that you shall not set foot within that shrine of hypocrisy again."_ _

__Reflexively, Charles forks the fingers of both hands, passing their approximation of the symbol _mem-aleph_ over his heart. He half expects a bolt of lightning, though it is quite likely that Erik has committed darker deeds than invoking the one power whose name must not be spoken. Recalling the faint but ominous impression of taloned wings about Lehnsherr's aura in their vision, the scholar is almost certain the other man has had truck with forces more malicious than even Loki. The Old Ones of the Deeps, the self-styled Elder Gods, and all those deathless demiurges who loath the incarnate universe, and their own expulsion from it. Erik seems to find the warding motion both powerful and amusing, but Charles only feels more drained._ _

__Moving as though to take the prince's elbow, Erik says, "Come, let us--"_ _

__"The only swearing you should be doing is to me," Xavier interrupts, with all the studied hauteur of a true Court companion. "You promised me three bindings in return, and I'll do aught until we've settled this between us."_ _

__"We're both guilty of over-exertion," his captor says reasonably enough, "You're trembling." Of course, Erik is too; they are standing so close that they can both feel as well as see the phenomenon in one another. The warmth coming off his old friend is tempting, a wordless siren tempting Charles to embrace and soothe both their hurts. A closed system now, they two, and will therefore always find their richest respite in one another.  
"Your _word_ , Dark Lord."_ _

__

__Erik has the nerve to look a bit wounded at that, but he unsheathes the _misericorde_ at his waist. He wipes it briefs-- rather uselessly-- on his worn linen shirt. With the laces open at the collar, the pendant Charles gave him so long ago gleams mockingly against the strong chest._ _

__In one smooth motion, Erik slices neatly into his left palm, curling his fingers into a bleeding fist. "Command me then. I swear there are no others I'd allow to issue orders, much less contemplate obeying them."_ _

__

__It's another incomprehensible statement, since Erik rarely listened to direct requests from Charles even when they were children. Or rather, he'd made a great show of authority-- being the elder of the two boys, he had taken it as his due. However, even if he refused to change a plan, or publicly scoffed at some quill or herb the prince fancied, it was also very likely Charles would find the very same item laid anonymously at his door the next morning. Frequently stolen, or at least… 'creatively appropriated'. Erik never grappled well with gratitude or compliments, never mind the fact he was more likely to be affronted by a gift in return. That he'd accepted the pendant showed how keenly they'd both felt the calamity bearing down on the city, though they had been young and relatively unable to grasp the true scope and horror of war._ _

__Horrors Erik-- if that terrible 'Y'-shaped scar is anything to go by-- became intimate with shortly thereafter. A war into whose service he was forcibly enlisted, but also a war that he _chose_ to perpetuate. Charles doesn't know when Shaw died, but he can hazard a guess. Five years ago, when the Dark Lord's tactics changed so drastically, wedding technology and magic, and turning the tide of the conflict decisively against the Elves._ _

__' _Remember that when you look at him,_ ' the prince chastises himself. _'Remember, and be sorry for your part in all this suffering.'__ _

__

__A drop of blood dangles from Lehnsherr's fist, and Charles takes a deep centering breath._ _

__"Swear to me that my students will be safe-- from you, and all those who answer to you."_ _

__"You waste your wishes, Little _Maus_ ," Erik chides. "I already conceded that."_ _

__"Not in so many words. And most certainly not in blood."_ _

__Without further comment, the soldier tightens his fist. The drop swells and falls, vanishing into a thin curl of darkness before it hits the ground._ _

__"Swear that you will refrain from killing any prisoners you've taken."_ _

__Another drop. "None who remain in Acidalium will be killed, I swear." The solemn tone is somewhat ruined by the quirk of the older man's lips. Erik's gaze turns tender, "So concerned with others, my dear."_ _

__

__Charles can't help but bristle. He knows that, as always, any kindness he extends will be viewed as a weakness, and he hates himself for the friendship and old affection which caused him to vacillate in the catacombs. Someone more cynical would doubtless have found a way to wound Erik, or even deliver a killing blow, while the other mage's guard was down. He'll never have another chance like that, not that it matters. He and Erik are Bound now-- they live and die as one. And, while the depth of Xavier's horror and frustration might lend itself to self-annihilation, his own promises bar him from such._ _

__So many beings armor themselves with gifts of nature; trolls, satyrs, centaurs and dragon-folk. Lacking these, the faey bolster themselves with utter abandon; the changelings have their elaborate mating rituals, the demons their Secret Names. Elves and humans wear masks, all the worse for being wholly metaphorical, forever dedicating themselves to artifice. In spite of his upbringing, Charles has always found his own guises too brittle. He feels as though everyone can see his regal bearing is a mirage, and that makes it seem all the more grotesque. Another one of Lady Sharon's witticisms: _'Whatever you do, it should be done artfully'.__ _

__

__As if catching the gist of that last thought Lehnsherr says, "It may comfort you to know that the Lady Sharon and several of her handmaids smuggled themselves out of the city in a turnip cart." The Dark Lord doesn't bother to hide his amusement. "We suspect they are heading Southeast, but they will not be pursued."_ _

__

__Is Charles supposed to thank Erik for sparing his mother's life? It seems he has finally encountered a situation not covered in an acolyte's exhaustive etiquette drills. Though he had no hint that Lady Sharon was preparing for the possibility of such utter defeat, he is hardly surprised. His mother has always been a keen manipulator of political currents, as sensitive to subterranean changes in power as a witch with a dowsing rod. Certainly, she must have concocted a plan more effective than the one he and Hank outlined. Now she is heading East, to where Xavier's faey cousin Anthony holds his Court in the Iron Woods. It is a journey of exile he and his students would be taking even now, if only fortune had smiled on him as well. Fortune, and better planning. (Though, with wry self-disgust, Charles wonders how he could possibly be expected to factor _Erik_ into his strategies.) _ _

__

__In spite of Lehnsherr's assurance, Charles almost feels as though his final demand ought to be an oath for his mother's safety. He should anticipate some future need of Acidalium or his remaining people-- should use his last wish for something, anything, that would benefit more than just himself. Later, he will berate himself for his selfishness; surely fending off any advances from Erik would be a small price to pay? Yet his old friend's gaze is so warm, and they are in far closer proximity than the prince had consciously realized. Their bond is old and barbarous, the mystical union of forgotten yet endlessly bloodthirsty gods. The carmine liquid coating Erik's palm and fingers calls to Charles somehow, implying safety and comfort. He is struck by the powerful sense memory of being small again, listening to the storms lashing outside and knowing in that unquestioning, childish way that he is sheltered by Erik boyish arms as much as the granite sand-cellar. He remembers that boy's face on the pillow beside his own, so close their breaths mingled and they could feel as well as hear the words they whispered back and forth. On the heels of that thought, almost mocking that friendship of old, is the feel of the adult Erik's arms around him, the strength of his hands. Lehnsherr's kisses still burn the prince's lips._ _

__One glance at the Dark Lord's face tells him Erik is seeing and sharing both memories-- not a communion of thoughts, thank the Powers, but vague impressions and emotional tides that ripple against them in their little, closed magical sphere. The whole of Erik's bearing and aura betray an avarice to possess the younger man._ _

__"And," Charles says, unable to help the arrogant tilt of his chin. His tone is not vindictive, precisely, but he is lost and defeated and his pride (always his greatest sin) is just as wounded as his tender heart. "You will touch me only as your brother."_ _

__

__"Only as your brother. Unless…" Erik adds just before the last drop of blood devolves, and before the other mage can protest, "You ask otherwise."_ _

__"I won't ask," the scholar says stiffly. "The dark halls of Dis will know daylight, first."_ _

__It's infuriating, but the dark mage merely shrugs philosophically, "You are bound to me now-- I can ask for little else. And I certainly would not ask that you bear pain for my pleasure." There's something off about that statement, but Xavier is too busy trying to fight his way through his own chaos of emotional, magickal, and physical exhaustion. After a moment's consideration, his captor adds, "I should have liked to kiss you again, though, so I might take more care to remember the details." He has the nerve to dart a hopeful glance at his prisoner, which Charles manfully ignores._ _

__"I don't _understand_ you!" the prince says in frustration. A foolish statement, because he shouldn't be trying to understand Erik at all. Nothing can be gained from it save sorrow and the resurgence of confusing moments from the past. _'You need to put those memories aside,'_ he counsels himself, _'as if they happened to someone else.'__ _

__

__Rather than answer directly, Erik instead offers his still bleeding hand to his companion, palm up. The scholar swallows down the instinctive admonishment-- and offer-- to bandage it._ _

__"If this yours, if you want it." In the same tone one uses to offer a friend the ripest of summer's fruits, or nourishment after a hard day. Moments later, Charles realizes that's exactly what it is, and recoils in shock._ _

__"Good heavens, Erik, what do you take me for!?" Blood-sharing is blasphemously intimate-- tied up in rituals so forbidden they are barely spoken of. Taking the dark mage's oaths in blood had been skirting the edges of Elvish morality, but this…_ _

__"You'll feel better if you do," Lehnsherr points out. The prince is finding the man does a really remarkable job of sounding reasonable while discussing the most illogical concepts. Again, a visceral image rises to the forefront of Charles' mind. No a memory, but a powerful imagining of licking that strong, war-roughened palm clean, of suckling at the wound while allowing Erik's warm embrace. He literally shakes his head to clear it, and regrets the wave of dizzy fatigue that brings. He needs real food, and soon. It's on the tip of his tongue to remind the Dark Lord that such blood-sharing is hardly brotherly, but then he remembers two brothers, divine twins, who _did_._ _

__"All of those things are barbaric," Xavier murmurs loftily. He won't be the one to bring up such licentious stories, but he hopes the emphasis encompasses everything Erik's (for surely it _was_ Erik) imagination can illustrate._ _

__"Very well." The Dark Lord shrugs again-- such an incongruously boyish gesture!-- and reaches for one of the few dry rags unchanged by their brief, sorcerous scuffle. "Then allow me to fetch food."_ _

__

__The situation would be greatly eased if Erik's solicitude were mocking, but it's not. Charles watches in dull astonishment as his captor actually bows. There's a misshapen pearl of hysteria lodged in his throat, but he manages to swallow past it and nod assent. Erik disappears beyond the white tent-flap without another word._ _

__

__Charles sits down heavily amongst the soot and furs, the living center of a sorcerous nightmare. The surreal kaleidoscope around him seems ever more sinister-- endless mocking whispers that he does not even know himself. Flowers with teeth, frozen flames, endlessly blinking crimson eyes, and gemstones to match them on the packed-earth floor.  
With bare toes, he nudges one such ruby, and wonders if he is choking back laughter or sobs._ _

  
.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Meredith's Tiresome World-Building Notes:**  
>  [+] _Misericorde_ \- a long, narrow blade used by knights. Thin enough to fit between plates of armor, it was more-or-less easy to conceal, and sometimes used to deliver the killing blow to an already fatally wounded compatriot (i.e., the "mercy blow").  
> [+] _manna_ \- (fantasy RPG) the source of magical power; the soul-energy exerted by casting a spell. Typically spelled 'mana', reflecting its source in Polynesian mythology. As a teenager, I was convinced it was ' _manna_ ', as in 'manna from heaven'. I guess I thought of it more as spiritual/physical nourishment, which shows in this story. ;-)  
> [+] _mem-aleph_ \- the Hebrew letters that correspond to MA. Historically, it was used on amulets and in the kabbalah to mean both 'water' and 'the beginning'-- i.e., the dark waters before creation.  
> [+] The Elder Gods and The Great Old Ones are the center of H.P. Lovecraft's brilliant (and still unmatched!) fictional horror mythology, starting with "The Call of Cthulhu". De Vermis Mysteriis is an equally fictional book by one of Lovecraft's disciples, Robert Bloch (best known for _Pyscho_!). 
> 
>  
> 
> No disrespect intended to any religions, belief systems or cultures referenced in this story. I'm just a bibliophilic dork. No magical creatures were harmed in the production of this fanfic.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What madness is _this_? I actually managed two chapters in a year! (Cutting it close, but close counts in horseshoes, fanfic, and grenades. ^_~) 
> 
> As always, I really, really appreciate you taking the time to read my story. Any kudos or comments you should chose to leave would be very kind, as they help me stay on-task and not get distracted by random shiny things. 
> 
> So! Have (a very long) Chapter 7, in which: there is much discussion and some interrupted exposition, Charles meets a few new and/or unexpected people, and Erik obeys the new touching rule when asked but needs a _lot_ of reminders. He's so challenged.  <3

_(In folk tales, each hero is clever. He is young, or she is unworldly, but they do not go into the vastness beyond the fields they know unarmed. The boys in Edie's stories-- those mismatched brothers-- were swift-footed and quick-witted. They braved the forest with a single-minded determination. They did not get distracted by minutiae, and they definitely didn't step off the path.  
For the forest is full of wolves, wearing the faces of friends.)_

 

Charles needs time to think, to strategize. This will never be a matter of simple personal preservation, for he has mired the fate of his students in these dark waters with his thoughtless reactions and sentimentality. He tells himself to look at the situation calmly, that is is just a lock-and-puzzle box, a nested mirror-globe, or any number of odd training artifacts from his childhood. Even when his instincts misled him, enough effort and precisio ensured that he would at last see the pattern or the path through those little magical tests. He just needs to center himself and think. Erik, however, returns far more quickly than the prince had anticipated.  
A good thing for his physical health, and a bad one for his peace of mind. 

 

A reminder, too, that this foe can keep him off balance. Charles has never been one to play off the cuff, be it Castles, Hounds and Jackals, or even the gem-and-die games of the faey. Erik used to play with ruthless efficiency, and Charles had seen the same signature in the Dark Lord's sudden change of tactics, though he had woefully failed to put a name to it. Lord Shaw aimed for maximum devastation, a disciple of the 'scorched earth' concept. Erik is no longer a boy frowning over ivory game pieces, but Charles can see he still operates with dry practicality, compensating for losses with increased force in some other, unexpected quarter. Charles is always one to plan two or three moves in advance, with is devastatingly effective when one can calculate their adversaries' options. It's far, far less potent when the battlefield is obscured.

_(Erik's odd guilt in the catacombs, so shocked by the sight of Charles' maimed back: "I should not have let them know I wanted you at all. Charles, Charles… There's more going on here then you know.")_

The prince's pride rankles; it feels like the phantom crawlings of pain he still wakes with, in the night.

He's been operating in the dark for far too long.

 

In the handful of minutes he is alone, it does occur to Xavier to escape. He doesn't know the location of their encampment in relation to the mountains-- or, indeed, any familiar landmark-- but that is hardly the highest trump against him. He'll never get far enough for it to matter, unable to take aggressive action to avoid recapture or include his students in the escape. An exercise in futility, for what could veil the brilliant flare of his aura? It is clear Erik made that his signal-fire long ago, and will follow across any terrain-- physical, metaphysical, and everything in between. Even as a token gesture, it's worthless. The last thing Charles wants is to be brought back to an enemy outpost like a recalcitrant child. 

Rapidly considering these factors, it also occurs to him that the tent is surprisingly tranquil. One might assume Erik's forces had found a box canyon or relatively hospitable plateau for their outpost, but even then there ought to be wind to buffet the shelters or grass to creep under the tents. The packed earth floor is solid, blemished only by long-encased rocks and, of course, the magickal debris he and Erik provided. Charles cannot hear even a breeze, much less the ambient noise expected from livestock or cavalry. Some mundane activity is definitely audible, but even that is muted, and the prince seems to detect an odd, almost musical dripping or trickling underneath. Almost as soon as he's decided that a peek from underneath the tent canvas would not go amiss if done covertly, Erik returns with company in tow. 

 

The mere scent of nourishment is like a physical blow and, for a moment, it is the only thing Charles can focus on. Both Erik and his new companion carry trays, showcasing a variety of preserves and dried meat-cakes favored by armies in the field. Heated or steamed, the fragrance is enticing to a degree reached only in profound hunger. He's overextended himself in the extreme-- three days of defensive spell-weaving with Emma prior to the battle, the struggle for Acidalium itself, and then his embarrassing display of wild magick. He checks himself once more for his unbecoming pride, but he's still not sure if he's more chagrined by his lack of control or by the fact he practically collapsed in Erik's arms once the binding ring was on his finger. Time has slipped through those same fingers during his fugue, and-- how charmingly apropos!-- his nightmare illustrations were wrought on the utterly unremarkable surroundings of a standard soldier's tent.

 

Charles starts to rise, if only to maintain some vestige of high ground, but he aborts the motion in sheer startlement as Erik folds his own form to sit on the cushion-strewn floor. Adulthood has graced Lehnsherr with all height and power promised by his lanky frame in youth, and it is more than a little jarring to see him sink so effortlessly and unselfconsciously into what many would consider a subservient position. Setting his tray between them, Erik motions for the newcomer to approach. The bearer of the second tray is a lovely-- and somehow familiar-- young woman with an aquiline countenance. A faey of the dark court, if the ebony sheen of her hair and gold tattoos are anything to go by. She hardly looks like a servant, dressed in serviceable trousers, bishop's mantle mail, and a shirt hastily cut to accommodate her wings. As she turns slightly to hand her commander a large jug, Charles catches sight of them-- durable despite their illusion of delicacy, and faintly evocative of a dragon fly. At rest, the appendages curl gently about her shoulders, giving the impression of a glittering, exotic cape.

It is then that the prince recognizes her, even as he tramps down the unwilling envy in his heart. She is the same faey he and Ororo downed outside the wards with their combined spells. To say the memory feels like the life of someone utterly alien now is trite, but only because the phrase is so relatable. The truth is often repeated until it seems meaningless. They lock gazes for a moment, and the girl gives him a faint if somewhat distant smile. She recognizes him too, clearly, though it seems the only thing disturbing her equilibrium is the incongruity of the ash-strewn floor. Irrationally, Charles feels a bit embarrassed. Distracted by this, he does not resist when Erik leans near to drape one of the discarded furs about his shoulders. He rears back a little just before the older man pulls away, but his captor is quick to ply him with the food. There are balls of rice and sesame seeds rolled in thin jerky or stuffed into a sort of dumpling stew, a few cuts of meat that must have been slaughtered on-site, and a little plate of candied plums he knows came from the palace stores in Acidalium. He carefully avoids the last delicacy and, for a few blessed moments, focuses solely on the satisfaction universal to all creatures having obtained nourishment.

 

The feeling quickly fades, though. Bolstering his drained manna helps, but he still feels a considerable amount of trepidation about the sheer wild strength of his earlier sorcery. _Sakanagi_ \-- that is, magickal backlash-- is typically only a concern if one violates the three-fold rule that binds all mages; _'Do as thou will, if it harm none.'_ His lack of restraint complicates matters, however, and he doesn't know if any of the damage extends beyond the tent itself. Well into his second rice cake, Charles sneaks a quick glance up at the man he once know so well, long ago. Practitioners of the dark arts have, by necessity, found ways of redirecting backlash onto more innocent parties but, in spite of everything that has happened today, he can't quite bring himself to picture Erik employing that level of sadism.

_'You're a fool,'_ he thinks, slashing the words into his own mind. _'If Loki is the least offensive of his allies, how can you possibly think _anything_ is beyond him?'_ Considering the new bond and Charles' own hand in today's mass suffering, there's no way of telling how these consequences might be shared.

 

"I told you, Charles-- no harm will ever come to you," Erik says, uttering the first words in what had been long minutes of scraping utensils and cutlery. His voice is taunt, almost offended, and it deepens further when he says, "And I am the only one who pays my debts."

Though his tongue feels like an unwieldy sword, the scholar says, "I fear I value evidence over words. In the interim, I'm sure you'll forgive me my understandable doubts."

No verbal response. The tight set of Erik's jaw is somehow revealing, but the captive makes himself look away and study the reaction of the girl instead. The Dark Lord reads him easily-- not exact thought, thankfully, but general intent. It's not an aspect of the bond he wants to contemplate at the moment, and the stranger's reaction to her master's distemper will be far more telling than anything Charles could sense from that familiar-foreign mind. Will she be aghast and cringe from the the dark mage in fear of an explosive temper, or will her glance be the covert kind of one long subjected to more subtle violence? Surprisingly, she does neither, merely handing a jug of spiced cider to her liege when he motions for it. 

"A tart drink for your tart tongue," Erik says, handing Charles a cup with more gentleness than his words imply. Despite the years apart, the scholar knows exactly what Erik sounds like when he's offended. Or rather, annoyed with himself for being offended. Xavier has to fight down the habitual urge to placate. It was ill-done of him, in all likelihood, but he hardly feels he should have to admit that.

"A sharp tongue and a dull sword," he says instead, with a self-deprecating little huff of laughter. His quarter-staff is still propped against the tent's one small table. Even if it weren't covered in overly-theatrical red jam, he wouldn't want it. It reminds him of his failure and, at any rate, the grip is adamantium. If possible, he must acquire something of pure wood-- or perhaps behemoth-tusk-- instead. He should at least be able to trust his weapons not to betray him to Erik, even if he cannot trust himself.

"Sharp but sweet," the other mage says, seeming to relent in favor of dragging Charles' back from his inner turmoil. Erik has shown himself to be a graceful fighter but, seated as they are, there is not way for him to sidle closer to his prisoner _and_ make it subtle. The scholar himself coughs awkwardly under what can only be described as possessive scrutiny. "The drink," Lehnsherr clarifies, though the other mage does not for one moment believe him. "Please, it will warm you."

 

The cider is exactly as described, a cloying nectar with a hidden bite. Charles forces himself to sip at a civilized pace, ignoring the strange, persistent sense of deja vu. On cold Chrysian nights, Edie used to let them eat on the floor like this, the meal spread out on blankets in front of the fire. When Jakob was away, encamped as master mason on whatever new Evlish monument was being reared, she even joined them. Like Erik, she had been beautiful in an iconoclastic sense. No classicist's dream, with her small mouth, sharp chin and oddly wide doe eyes, she'd never the less been remarkably lovely. She would sit beside them on the quilts in her plain, homespun dress and play complicated games of faey dice with Charles, while Erik sharpened his knives in a calm and almost religious devotion. 

Without thinking, his gaze meets Erik's, and the discordance between memory and real-time increases. Briefly, impressions from the bond usurp the present, bleeding out imagery and information even as the prince tries to center his own mind. The sound of phantom wind roars in Charles' ears.

_(Wind so cold it cuts like a knife. Night dripping over sand dunes, white as snow under a naked demon moon. Knives-- real ones-- here scalpel, here lancet, here fearsome angled retractor. They gleam in martial, orderly rows on Shaw's ornate, almost ceremonial tray.  
'I want the name,' the warlord says, and the wind screams.  She screams. Now and forever, for all time henceforth, the wail of any storm will be her agonized voice.)_

 

The vestiges of memory are so powerful that Xavier starts violently, spilling his drink. Lehnsherr is no mental-mage or spiritual adept; when he slams down on the memory, its like a gorgon barreling full-tilt through rosebushes. _Everything_ jerks and stops, enraged manna on the verge of physical expression once more. If they were not already so drained, Charles would fear for a reprise magick loosed by his grief and Erik's unquenchable desire to avenge. Reflexively, the scholar brings a hand to his aching temple, though that is of course only where his body thinks the pain is.

_("Shaw thought he'd killed the only person I ever cared about.")_

Nausea threatens to undo Charles' perhaps overly enthusiastic repast. Of course she's gone; Erik said as much, and he'd hardly be the Dark Lord of Nod if Edie were alive to knock some sense into him. The prisoner's eyes sting, and he scrubs at them with one hand even as he blindly gropes for his cup with the other.

 

They all must look a comic picture, for his own head nearly collides with the faey maid's as they both reach for the dropped earthenware. Erik seems to be attempting to place an arm around Charles' shoulders while simultaneously staring fixedly towards an uninhabited corner of the tent. Shrugging enough to dislodge his captor, Xavier begins apologizing to the girl even as she hands him the vessel.

"I'm sorry," he says, wincing at the near collision. "I'm sorry--" This close, of course, he cannot avoid seeing the abrasions on her cheeks and jaw, most likely from her earlier uncontrolled descent. He looks at her, blinking as he gropes for etiquette. 

"Think nothing of it." It is her turn then, to flush with embarrassment and, under his continued scrutiny, she adds, "Such is the way of things, when we take up arms."

"The very truth," Xavier nods,tempering the flash of dark humor with a humble nod of acknowledgement. As complicated as things are with Erik, he has no real ill-will towards this woman. It would be the height of folly to apologize for defending himself, but he does not enjoy jeopardizing others-- on the battlefield, or within the equally dangerous confines of the Court. If at all possible, it is his daily goal to avoid deliberately causing others pain-- though he is as flawed as any in this sphere, and often fails. Many human religious sects place great emphasis on selflessness and good works but, while these things are very necessary and admirable, so much could be avoided if all beings merely made a conscious effort to curb their viciousness even in the most paltry of interactions.

"Little Maus--"

"Don't call me that!" Charles snaps. Well, not vicious unless deliberately provoked. He wonders if he will ever stop feeling so raw, or so hypocritical. Flatly, he adds, "We need to get this bond under control." 

 

This is what he gets for trying to put off unwanted chores. It's impossible to know how their nascent connection has functioned all these years, but it's almost immaterial now. What was once subconscious or deliberately hidden has now become a union of two unabashedly vital (if somewhat protesting, in his case) souls. His academic mind damns him to desire a full explanation of all the mechanics, but one thing is already abundantly clear: Erik may be more familiar with their sharing, but Charles has the strength and finesse of training. 

_'You can block him,'_ he realizes, slipping the thought quickly under a calm-and-mirrored portion of his mind. _'Not just a little, not just emotions, but almost completely.'_ It will take work, and it will never undo the bond itself or free him from his oaths. Yet it will give him privacy, a place to stand. The metaphorical one hand free of the restraining stockade.  
It's amazing what one can do with a single free hand. 

This concept has given him literal pause but the girl-- bless her-- hands him a rag, and he begins dabbing at his leg the hem of his breeches. Most of the cider merely spilled on the dirt floor, but some of it did splash his foot. It gives him something to do besides respond to the once more conciliatory sweetness flowing-- faint but sure-- from the man beside him. How *does* Erik manage to be irritated, possessive and pleading all at the same time?

 

"We need to get shoes for you, Charles." Dark Lord says, having decided to share Charles' focus rather than distract from it. The use of the prince's name is deliberate, and also a little sullen. 

"You might have to lace them an extra time or two, but Johnny has boots that might fit him," the faey woman suggests. 

Charles looks down at the clothes he's been wearing for… powers only know how long. While plainer than most Court attire, the garments are hardly made for rigorous living. The thin material of his tunic, now torn and stained, is half-hidden by the furs wrapped around his shoulders. While he's grateful for the added warmth, the scholar is still fairly shivering. He's not sure if its from cold, exhaustion, or simple shock.

"That will do for now, I think," Erik says to the faey maid, giving her a permissive nod. 

She turns towards the doorway, then holds back. "General Mystique wishes to remind you…"

"The general will bide," the Dark Lord says, some irritation creeping into his tone. "There will be plenty of time for reunions later. "For now," and here he helpfully hands his captive a bowl of dumpling stew, "our gust must eat and recover."

The prince knows his derisive huff is heard, even if Erik chooses not to address it. Instead, Lehnsherr critically eyes the fine brocade tunic and velvet knee-breeches of the 'guest' in question. 

"Warmer clothes too, I think," Erik says, piling another fur around Charles' shoulders, and then one on his lap for good measure. "Check my trunk."

"Right away, my Lord," The dark faey sketches a quick bow.

Partly because he dislikes being discussed like  
_(an invalid)_  
a child, Charles pipes in with a small bit of thanks, allowing the upward infection to remain an expectant question. 

"I am called Angel, m'Lord," At the prince's acknowledgement, her smile becomes a less perfunctory, and he can sense just a bit of wry, worldly humor underneath. He forces his own expression to remain open and friendly, though it must certainly be clear to everyone by now that he is a captive, and no longer anyone's lord. 

"I'm Charles." An unnecessary introduction, to be sure, but civility shores up the foundations of society. Or, in terms more familiar to his Elvish teachers, 'ritual for the sake of verifying reality'. Impossibly, exhaustion settles even more deeply into Xavier's bones. He longs to be alone for, without company, he is free to define himself. 

"An honor, your grace." One last bow, and Angel disappears beyond the white canvas confines of the tent.

 

Without meaning to, Charles sags a bit against Erik, who seems to interpret this as a reason to ply him with the plate of candied plums. He waves them away, focusing on the soft dumplings and the blessed warmth as they slide down his throat. 

"You love candied plums," Erik says, sounding faintly-- ridiculously-- hurt.

"I love them when they're not stolen from my own city's storehouses," the prince corrects. That, at least, inspires a more familiar expression in his companion. Once, Charles loathed that look of tolerant, superior humor-- but its better than this strange and intimate solicitude. 

"Shall we quibble over every small detail, then?"

"No," Charles says decisively. "No, I shall have answers, instead." Given Erik's silence, he continues, "I told you, we need to get this bond under control. I don't appreciate being ignored."

Lehnsherr looks caught, but insists, "I was simply focusing on practical concerns--"

"That _is_ a practical concern. Too much emotion, on either side, and we'll be treating innocent bystanders to whatever wrapped reflections happen to be foremost in our joined subconscious--"

 

_(Edie's voice, quietly advising him in the aftermath of some half-failed magical task. He remembers her gentle grip on his shoulders, the way she leaned close to his ear in spite of his tutors' frowns. Reminding him of wishes like unruly weeds behind the heart, and the strange shapes they take when exposed to light._

_"There's a gap between what you truly believe and what you tell yourself you believe." Yet it had been clear both sides of *her* belief included confidence in Charles and his abilities. "When you are still within yourself, breathe out. Try again.")_

\-- and then, in a truly surreal moment of mnemonic vertigo--

_(Erik, having just finished a time-out, trooping out to his mother's garden to apologize. No Charles this evening, what with the lights of the palace ablaze for some Court function or another, and Erik's bottom still hurts from his father's swatting._

_"I'm sorry I ruined the candlesticks, Mama," he says, sincere despite the fact he appears to be addressing the hydrangeas._

_"I expect you to make me new ones, as soon as I can afford the ore." She kisses his forehead and then, kneeling, lifts his chin to study his face. Her eyes are dark, focused-- he can see his own reflection twinned in those perceptive orbs. "I worry about you, **mossik**." She taps his chest, right over his heart._

_"It doesn't **feel** hollow," he says, meaning that metaphorical breeding ground of wishes. All the village teachers-- and the students who mock him for his stoicism-- make it sound like a proper mage should be some sort of tin cup, rattling around with nothing. He feels his difference from them the way one senses and sometimes fears the dark side of the moon. Erik squirms away a little, uncomfortable with his mother's scrutiny._

_"Not for you it isn't," she agrees. In the even-glow of twilight, she is at once familiar and infinitely strange; the heavenly creature who, for the sake of a simple stone mason, willingly accepted exile to earth. "Whatever you're hoarding back there… oh, my dear one, take care.")_

 

Presently, Charles sucks in a deep breath, fumbling for his train of thought in the wake of such visceral sharing. 

"Or," he finishes, after too long a pause, "we might show the other things we wouldn't want _anyone_ else to see." The conclusion is a bit lame, having lost steam in the emotional conflagration, but Erik seems to take his meaning. Amazing what a little practical, if accidental, demonstration can do. 

 

 

For a time, there is no sound save that of the cutlery, and the almost audible thickness of Erik's sudden gloom. It's abundantly clear that Edie is gone, yet Charles still cannot find a way to absorb the concept. Sweet heavens, how many times had he pretended-- if only for a few brief moments-- that _she_ was his mother? 

At last, the scholar murmurs, "You said there was much I didn't know about the politics behind the war." To himself, he wonders if history shouldn't actually record two struggles-- the one spearheaded by Shaw to enforce his bizarre purist rhetoric, and the conflict Erik continued for his own only half-fathomable reasons. A paltry consideration at the moment, and certainly of no consequence to those slain on either side, but Charles cannot change the twists and turns of his academic mind any more than he can erase the decades worth of ink stains from his fingers. Narrowing his eyes, he says aloud, "You implied I was being deliberately mislead." Since one expects such behavior from the enemy, he sharpens the emphasis with, "By my own people."

He scoots away from the dark mage, needing what little physical distance he can get. He hopes whatever intellectual distance achieved will be exponentially greater. The bond itself wants, if not consummation, then at least the balm of proximity. The bond can drain him physically and play on his emotions but, mercifully, it cannot touch his mind. Charles refuses to indulge it.

 

"Political discussion rarely makes a pleasant _aperitif_ ," Lehnsherr says, making as if to draw the young prince back. Charles holds up a hand and-- whether because of the oath or his own discretion-- the Dark Lord subsides. 

"I fear my manners are greatly influenced by the rustic surroundings." Xavier smiles faintly at his own poor joke, before withdrawing behind the serene mask of court intrigue. "I'll not dally on this."

"If you say so, let it be so." It is very unfair that Erik's adult baritone lends itself to naturally to faint implications of doom. Taking a deep swig of his own cider, Lehnsherr then stares into the empty cup as he begins to speak.

 

"About eight moons ago, near the Festival of the Gorgon-Slayer-- what the elves fear as Algol Eve-- the war had come to an approximate stalemate. Only the river stood between my armies and the hamlets north of Phelgral once we cut off the farms, the city itself would be an easy siege. Marko's forces were tenacious, though. We couldn't get near the river--"

"One of our last major supply lines," the prince says faintly. And because there's no use hiding it now, he adds, "That hurt us almost as much as losing Phlegra itself."

"All waterways are strategic," Lehnsherr says with an air of one reciting by rote. "Both sides had significant troops encamped on the line over the winter which was, as I'm sure you know, as hard as any Jord had seen in years. However, as the spring thaw came, I thought it likely a new push would succeed. The Elves were flagging, where as my armies had all the resources of prior conquest to draw from."

Charles smile is faint, but not very kind, "So you _do_ help yourself to the spoils of victory."

"We take tribute from the lands under our protection. Twice a year, in whatever form they wish-- livestock, harvest, goods, cloth…" Erik trails off, sounding far too tolerant. As well he might, for he and Charles both know Kurt demanded frequent tithes in coin, precious metals, or gems. Occasionally he could be bribed with exotic spices or some other rare bauble, but in his heart there rooted a lust for gold which put the Midas of legend to shame. "Other than that, we leave them alone." Seeing that the scholar has no further comment, Erik resumes the thread of his tale. "A fresh push from my forces would likely turn the tide, and I thought Marko knew that as well."

 

Oh, indeed, the Elf-King had, Charles acknowledges as privately as possible. Lord Stepfather been in a great rage, holding forth long tirades about all the compensations Phlegra would owe for their defense, and how many of Acidalium's forces were being 'wasted holding the lines holding the lines when the sod-munching Phelagrans ought to be able to do it themselves'. If not for the fact the region was the essential breadbasket of the remaining Elvish Kingdom, Mark would have quite happily sacrificed Lord McTaggart's lands if he thought it would buy his own royal districts more time. 

The entire political season-- traditionally reaching its height during the winter months-- had been a disaster. Acidalium, once a winter retreat for those wealthy or well-connected enough to escape the cold, had become their enforced refuge, and no one traveled unnecessarily since the war itself was so close. Those amongst the nobility who relished hunting season had already been grumbling about the reduced lands and game to which they would have access. Even the most out-of-fashion robes were being revived, and certain delicacies were disappearing from the banquet table. Charles, who had very quietly suggested moderate rationing, was very sternly taken to task for attempting to incite panic. To make matters worse, Lord Stryker had returned in defeat, having failed to quell an uprising in one of the last human villages within Elvish borders. The Great Empire had been dwindling to an island amongst unfriendly and ambivalent neighbors, and that island had been sinking with each passing moon.

 

"I sent Marko an offer to broker peace," Erik says. His voice is not loud, but it is very earnest. He pauses, storm-green eyes staring at Xavier unabashed as he waits for the scholar to absorb this latest revelation.

With an effort, Charles stems the hot denial that immediately springs to his lips. Any offer of peace, no matter how untrustworthy or incredulous, would have sent the Court into absolute chaos. Kurt had overruled the Council of Elders once too often, and it had been only the violent-- and sometimes fatal-- methods of supporters like Stryker, Kelley and Trask that allowed him to maintain his grip on the throne. Cain, who knew that any hope of his own power lay inheriting his father's regime, had similarly employed a system of bribes and blackmail within the martial class. For all the Elves' fanatical devotion to elegance and surface lacquer, the core of their society had become almost glaringly cancerous. They were living on borrowed time. What in the red heavens of hell could Erik's treaty-- _supposed_ treaty-- have stipulated to make it so unpalatable?

The prince does not allow the question to reflect on his face. He can feel the nourishment at last unfurling throughout his form and, with it, the return of strength and equilibrium. He corrects his posture-- as much as one can while sitting on the floor-- and regulates his breathing. While careful not to look directly at Erik for long periods of time, he also makes certain to look down only with his eyes. One must always keep the chin level even when looking down, Sharon often advised, or else the neck looks weak.

 

"What did this hypothetical treaty offer?" Charles asks, taking a purely perfunctory sip of cider. He watches Erik struggle not to rise to the bait; the needling implication of fallacy. 

"I sent my most trusted general," the Dark Lord intones. "A Chimera of great talent and stealth. I had very few spies within Marko's court, but they did exist."

"Indeed, my stepfather believed I was one of them." Said during a seemingly distracted survey of his hands-- the right one, at least. He has no desire to study the exotic yet elegant weave of metals on the bonding ring. 

"I am sorry for that," Lehnsherr says, with such unvarnished remorse that it causes his captive to look up briefly. One strong hand lifts towards Charles again, clearly intending to stroke along his back. The flinch requires no theatricality-- even just four moons after the  
_(torture)_  
surgery, he'd clocked Hank square across the jaw when the other scholar came up and touched him from behind unexpectedly. Kurt, in a fit of paranoia, had begun insisting that Charles be locked in his room at night. While his stepfather had clearly intended it as punishment, the Xavier heir had found it to be quite a boon. He'd slept secure then, knowing no one could undo the locks and wards-- and disable the discrete warning spell he himself had woven into the threshold-- without waking him. 

Thankfully, Erik abstains from touch once more, but the temptation of even that small closeness is almost as great as Charles' fear. A brief smile tugs at his lips, and let Lehnsherr think the gesture meant to appease him. In truth, Charles is thinking of the embrace they shared in the illusionary Chryse Planitia; of his old friend's devoted caresses to phantom wings. How very droll, that Erik should have fought so hard only to find his supposed treasure so maimed.

"Charles!" the other mage says sharply, face darkening as suddenly as the sky of a summer simoon. He takes the prince's slim shoulders in both hands, grip iron and just short of punishing. Though Charles stiffens and will not drop his careful courtesan's mask, Erik's own arctic gaze remains pleading. "My dear one, I never loved you for your _wings_!"

Warm arms enfold him, tucking him neatly against that firm, drumming warrior's heart. The stoneless pendant is a breath away from Charles' nose, gleam shifting ever-so-slightly as Erik hushes and rocks, smoothing the scholar's hair. Absurdly, they fit together even more perfectly than when they were children-- as though cleaved from the same piece of ivory. 

 

_'Traitorous bond,'_ Charles seethes, remaining as ungiving and limp as a slack marionette. He loathes his own exposure, and the fact Erik's clearly very fervent emotions do not seem to imply the same vulnerability for the Dark Lord. It's like a cascade of warm rain; a hopeless tangle of Lehnsherr's regret and adoration, guilt and love, sluicing against every numbed corner of Charles' soul. Taking one of the prisoner's limp hands, Erik guides it to rest against the precise and horrible scars his own chest bears.

"Charles," he says again, pressing a cheek against the younger being's hair, "What they have done to you-- what they have done to both of us. My poor darling." Xavier clenches his free hand into a fist to ensure it will not latch itself somewhere in the folds of Erik's clothing, seeking its own succor. He cannot fathom how one whose presence crackles with dark magick, whose very aura burns at the edges with its nothingness, can feel so flame-bright and enticing. 

"Let me go," he says after too long a moment. It takes so much effort to speak the words that he is in fact astonished by the sound of them. Lehnsherr complies, just as the oaths ensure. He will always have to retreat at Xavier's word, at least in this. 'You will treat me only as your brother'-- the problem is, they were always very affectionate brothers.

 

Charles takes a deep breath, struggling to dispel the lingering sensation of that simultaneously novel and familiar embrace. For the rest of his days, he will live with this temptation. It will be with him during every sunrise, every meal; it will be in the wine and in the warmth of fireside evenings. At night, it will curl close and devoted at his feet while he slumbers, ready to seduce should phantom dreams or phantom pains prick at his scarred flesh. His is a scholar, he tells himself, and therefore able to process cold facts without flinching. The enticement of comfort from his own brother's soul could easily lead Charles to retract his oaths, to trade his body in exchange for that addicting affection. He'd best find better ways of abstaining, of staying mindful always of Lehnsherr's crimes. Otherwise, he might forget to struggle, allow Erik to make blasphemous bargains and reorder the stars for his pleasure.  
He will forget why he ever wanted his freedom at all. 

Quietly, Erik persists, "Charles… Your wings do not define--"

"Just because you can sense things from the bond does not mean you're capable of interpreting them," Xavier says, with an amazing amount of confidence given the fact Erik has been right from the first. "It has been years since we parted. You have no idea what defines me." It is not difficult to affect an attitude of compassion, for it is true that Erik was always doomed to disappointment with his 'treasure'. Adding condescension takes a little more work, but Charles learned from the best. "Such a shame, my Lord. The boy you came to rescue no longer exists."

"Again, you lie." Erik's mouth sets into a thin pale line, jaw clenching angrily. "This is a union of souls, not merely of minds. I can feel _you_ , little brother," the last said with a kraken's toothy, menacing and knowing smile. "These lies come to your lips so freely, I wonder if you've come to believe them yourself." Strange, to see the Dark Lord's eyes soften while his expression remains so hard. "I saw my old friend in the catacombs, when you ran to me of your own accord."

"I didn't know--"

"And, mark me," Erik continues, leaning in and lowering his voice to the merest whisper. He does not touch the scholar, but the words blaze in hot puffs against Xavier's sensitive ear. "I will have that Charles again by my side."

 

Even as the young prince begins fumbling for a response, it quickly becomes unnecessary. A new voice announces entry to the tent, shattering the the new bond-mates' tense and intimate tableau. Charles startles slightly, almost guiltily, as if he had been about to turn his head ever-so-slightly and transform the hushed argument into a biting kiss.

"My, my, Erik…" the light alto speaker intones. It is a woman's voice, playful and familiar in the way of vaguely remembered perfumes. Such sing-song teasing implies a great deal of latitude with the Dark Lord and, in the height of absurdity, the captive experiences a pick of jealousy. The unwelcome feeling is only partially soothed by the annoyance with which Lehnsherr greets the newcomer.

"General Mystique," Erik says, in a tone Charles has never heard from him before. It is the same commanding note of the battle horn; the sound of a man who brooks no excuse or refusal, and who has the power to enforce his awesome will. "I believe I asked you to wait."

 

The woman he addresses is a Chimera, dressed in all the vestments her spoken rank implies. Hide trousers, vibranium chest-plate and greaves, and dragon-scale boots as deeply black as her skin is blue. In her unvarnished state she is full of vibrant color; indigo flesh, slick red hair, eyes the envy of any golden lion. Strongly and forcibly, she reminds Charles of another such changeling he knew long ago, though he glimpsed her natural form so rarely he can't be sure…

"I've brought boots and fresh clothing for your new consort," the general says pleasantly. "You'll have all the return journey to consummate your bond-- surely you can spare a few moments now for an old friend."

Charles can't help but blanche at the ribald, congratulatory comment. That she should speak as though this were a joyous occasion, a unity bestowing peace and prosperity instead of one that had cost so many thousands of lives. The only peace to be had now is that of still carrion battlefields, and the weary silent marches of the vanquished. Yet he cannot stop staring at her, as if she is a wisp of shadow in a crystal which might shortly resolve itself into a concrete revelation. She smiles broadly at his regard, at once innocent and wicked, and then he is almost positive of her identity. In his own heart, he is not sure if he wants it to be true or not. That a childhood playmate might have escaped slaughter-- yes, of course! But that her hand, too, should be behind the authoring of Erik's strange and bloody crusade…

Frowning, throat dry and closing around memories, he asks, "Raven?"

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith's Inane World-Building Notes:  
> [+] _sakanagi_ \- magickal backlash, or the price paid by the caster for using dark/negative energy in a spell. A concept from _onmyoudou_ , Japanese esoteric and magical cosmology and divination that crosses over Taoism, Buddhism and Shintoism. Most famously used in CLAMP's Tokyo Babylon and X: 1999. *fist-bumps any lurking fans, especially those of Seishirou/Subaru*  
> [+] _Algol (beta Persei)_ \-- in the constellation of Perseus, son of Zeus and Danae who slew the gorgon/Medusa. Notoriously called "The Demon Star" or the "Blinking Demon" due to its variations in color and intensity (it's actually a double star). Many cultures, including the Greeks and Romans, took it as an ill-omen. Other Middle-Eastern cultures considered its blinking stage as a sign to commence war. In the northern hemisphere, it's a winter constellation. (Though Jord's geography is vague and messy due to the author's strange but obviously short attention span. ^_~)  
> [+] _bishop's mail_ \-- also called a bishop's mantle, is a detachable collar or chain mail or leather worn with armor. It covers shoulders, breast and upper back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I am an incredibly lame person who takes longer to post than most star systems do to form. ... Does it help that this is the longest chapter yet? 
> 
> As always, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to look at my story-- especially if you're an old reader who has been patient with me for this long. Hopefully it's at least a little bit worth the wait. I would absolutely love to know what people think, and comments help motivate me to type up the abysmal number of handwritten pages I have backlogged. ^^; If you have time to comment or leave kudos, I will be very much obliged!
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the darling **Les** , who has been kind enough to begin translating this work into Chinese: [爱如凛冬|中文翻译](http://www.lofter.com/tag/%E7%88%B1%E5%A6%82%E5%87%9B%E5%86%AC?from=tagsearch).
> 
>  
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings for this chapter** : Non-graphic references to rape (none of the main characters) and war crimes. Sexual pressure/politicking amongst the court. Internalized victim-blaming, questionable child-rearing practices. The Elves apply their 'morality' unevenly, and Shaw doesn't even know what that word means.  
>  **Additional Warnings/Enticements:** Erik manages to be both handsy and respectful at the same time, and does occasionally adhere to his own special brand of reason. Charles is way too hard on himself, and the author has watched the Blind Pilots music video way too many times.

"Raven?"

The syllables have scarcely passed Charles' lips before a pleased blush sweeps over the general's features, followed by a remarkable blurring of her being. While the essential topography of the face does not change, there comes a brief cascade of curls and color. Softer tones; peach, hazel, a riot of cinnamon and gold. These new textures never coalesce, instead disappearing under what Charles can only assume-- based on a momentary break in eye contact and a stiffening of her posture-- is Erik's disapproving glare. 

Brief though it may be, it is enough. The prince's eye and memory fill in the rest. That brief glimpse was the future echo of the comely, gilded elf-child Raven once wore like a second skin. Perhaps, indeed, it had once been more familiar to her even than her natural state, so rarely did she deviate from it amongst the puritanical Court. There was never any truth in it; used to fending for herself, the wily chimera child merely amalgamated the expectations of beauty to which she was exposed. A mirage

_(every carefully choreographed ritual learned; every magickal exam performed with cautious and deliberate mediocrity; every word held back under bleeding tongue…)_

to blunt the hostility on all sides. You made yourself less of a target, armed yourself where you could. With an effort, Xavier refrains from shrugging awkwardly under his makeshift cloak of furs, knowing the itch his body aches to relieve exists only in wings long since excised and burned. Is he so foolish as to feel envy for her in this moment, when her flare of individualist honesty does not change the fact she clearly ranks amongst his foes?

This sharp creature of deep gem tones is certainly far closer to how Raven understands herself-- to who she has always been, perhaps. She is still beautiful; decidedly more in her confidence and iconoclasm. Angles sinuous, rather than gentling, this form wears every inch of armor like the skin it may very well be. Yet there is something weary about her, in her eyes or baring, that speaks to Charles of some impervious strength drawn from brittle, bitter ruins. When she grins at him-- sincere though her delight may be-- it is with teeth as white as cobra's fangs. 

 

"No one's called me that in years!" she laughs, head thrown back with the boom of it, as soldiers do. Earnest, but also faintly chastising, as if Charles had in fact misidentified her. 

The scholar can only blink, hating himself for the consolatory smile about to bloom instinctively on his lips. Instead, he watches her calmly, trying to impose dispassionate assessment where sentimentality blinded him so fatally before. It has already been painfully proven that these ghosts of his childhood do not come on an affectionate or merciful quest. The sight of her inspires a thousand little pains of heart and lungs, as if marked by splinters of a flaming arrow. The disquiet stems from more than the distant past. He chides himself half-heartedly; unease has been his constant companion since it found him in the catacombs, only moments before  
_(his bondmate)_  
the Dark Lord. 

 

"This is my right hand," Lehnsherr says, gesturing towards the changeling with one arm. The other is busy, reaching out to rest the weight of sculpted palm on the prince's elbow. He takes a few steps-- nothing obtrusive-- which place him almost between the reunited pair as if to define Charles' space and how others may relate to it. Before Xavier can do more than clench his jaw at introduced to his other childhood companion, Erik continues, "You see before you the general who held Imbrium Promentory through the long winter and," here, a smirk, pleased with his post-facto generosity, "Lord Kelly's valiant attempts at attrition."

Charles frowns, detail-oriented mind snagging on the fact all Elvish intelligence suggested it had been the Dark Lord himself encamped and holding that strategic point. There's no time for question, since Lehnsherr finishes with a smooth and utterly damning statement. The words are as disorienting as a tectonic shift, for all that they may be true. 

"Mystique," the Dark Lord intones, " _this_ is my bondmate. My future consort, he who is to be Regnant Lord Charles of House Xavier."

 

The prince-- for surely he will accept no title from his enemy, no matter how flattering-- prides himself that he does not gape. Isn't it enough that Lehnsherr has forged their souls with savage blood ritual? Having gone to that extreme, one wonders why a ruler with such total power would bother with the more institutional contract of matrimony. Though marriage, as opposed to bonding, is common amongst Elves as the political life-blood of the Court, any that cross social strata are required by law to be morganatic. Lady Sharon's careful maneuvering (called 'bed-hopping' with such spiteful delight behind her back) following her husband's death, and Charles' own relegation to son of the King's mistress, is hardly the first or the most drastic example of _that_.

Some loquacious and reckless demon seems to have taken hold of the scholar, for he hears himself say, "And do you take all your 'legal co-rulers' first by subterfuge, and then by thrall spells?" Surely Erik does not expect him to believe that, bond or no, he would ever be given power in this nest of vipers? Even if such an outlandish boon were possible, the subsequent price attached would likely be very, very high indeed. This knowledge, and the tart question, should be enough to voice his skepticism, but Charles cannot stop himself, "I felt certain I was destined for your harem, since you seem to have learned your method of acquiring mates from _satyrs_."

The words seem to come from some dim corner of the scholar's being, and they sound far too much like his own mother's own sugar-laced disdain. The nasty bravado may, in fact, be unworthy of the strange and earnest binding oaths Lehnsherr has given him; but the thought of his own openness 

_(worse, worse than vulnerability, _complicity_. oh, you little fool, how you wanted it all to be real!)_

in the bowels of Acidallium still rankles. He must shore up his ( _confusion/desire/hunger/trepidation_ ) shame with *something*. A line in the garden dirt, as when he was small. See here, my barrier-- I dare you.  
Of course, Erik was always one to step over such delineations with a sharp grin. 

 

A defensive look flickers over the Dark Lord's face, though it is short lived-- as is the glance of faint incredulity from Raven. Perhaps Erik has more of a temper than he's shown, for her reproachful gaze is fixed on Charles, not her leader. 

"I keep no harem, dearest," Lehnsherr answers, old daring mixed with implacable command. "Unless it is a harem of one." There's a wicked light in those storm-green eyes-- half the playfulness of an untried adolescent, half the reverent sensuality of a man. 

Charles himself is far too experienced to blush (as he tells himself repeatedly), and he refuses to look away. 

Of course, Erik sees that as an additional challenge. "Do you cast me as the satyr-king Eisenhardt?" he asks, smile reminiscent as he references a particularly carnal myth they stumbled upon in the libraries of Chryse Planitia. How Edie had scolded them for seeking out locked and censored scrolls! "That would make you Leto, would it not?"

From the sound Raven makes, she remembers that particular exploit herself.

"That story is hardly one for polite company," the prince demurs stiffly. 

To the obvious surprise of all, including Erik himself, the comment illicit brief bark of laughter from the dark mage. The sound has an aching poignancy, like the toll of some great bell muffled by years of rust. "Ah, Little _Maus_ , I'm afraid your current company can hardly be considered 'polite'." Then, to forestall any further jibes in this vein; "It was an Elvish library in which we encountered the tale, no? Quite the salacious little morsel for a trio of enterprising youngsters."

Charles, of course, being the youngest of the lot. As such, he'd been quite mystified by the detailed woodcuts, while simultaneously being the most qualified to translate the accompanying High Tongue text. Eisenhardt, the satyr-king, had looked quite imposing on the page, despite the snare from which young priest Leto was depicted freeing him. Xavier's recitation had been halting but true, until Raven's convulsive giggling drowned him out. 'Erik,' Charles remembers asking, 'If the king loves him so, why should he make his human bondmate scream?'  
To say nothing of the sword metaphors. 

 

"Had I known we were going to discuss old escapades, I would have brought spirits!" the general says with remarkable nonchalance. She's returned to the tone by which she announced herself, very nearly the joviality of a wedding feast. Is there some slight underscore of strain in it, too-- the upward inflection of hope? Regardless, Charles finds himself confronted with the unflattering desire to punish her. The wounds owed to her are less grievous than others

_('_Really_, boy,' says the voice of some now-faceless teacher, 'You've come through all of this with remarkably little bruising, save to your precious pride.')_

but he wants her to know he feels betrayed. He will hold her responsible for her part in this, though the celestial powers know he's hardly eager to find out what that might be. 

"No wine, and no spirits," the Dark Lord is firm. He takes the pile of clothing and the salvaged boots from Raven. "We have had our communion, and I fear Charles needs something far more substantial for his recovery." And, with much heavier cadence, "I did ask you to _wait_."

"Apologies, my lord," the chimera returns, sounding only half-sincere. "I wanted to see if Charles was--"

"Well, now you've seen him and you may go." Words dropped like stones in a pool-- no ripples, and hardly any sound. 

Golden eyes look heedlessly past their commander, almost pleadingly. "Charles, as soon as I heard--" She takes a deep breath. "Tell me you're alright."

 

Beset by a sudden crawling sensation along his spine, Xavier suppresses the urge to shrug beneath his makeshift fur cloak. It is not an itch that can be eased by friction, these psychosomatic pricklings in long-vanished nerves. Calmly, calmly; "Quite well, thank you. Especially considering the fate one may assume for so many prisoners of war."

The response begins as a chorus from both Erik and the general, but it ends discordantly. "You're not--"

"- a prisoner."

"- guilty of torture and experimentation."

 

Inwardly, the scholar frowns. It cannot be denied that Elves are as bloodthirsty in their own particular fashion, but it is well known that they prefer death as a spectacle-- artistry in all things, not to mention a useful reminder to those who might be tempted to trespass in kind. Kurt, in particular, was a fiend for beheading suspected traitors, who were less likely to be actually seditious than merely politically inconvenient. Charles could never excuse or even ignore such things, protesting when and as ardently as he could, though Cain and Lord Kelly asked many a time if he liked his own neck as stainless as it was. Since the mysterious events humans call the 'Fall', all mortal beings carry darkness within, as he reminds his students daily. It is this ease towards violence and hatred which must be resisted, be one faey, elf, wyvern, werewolf, or man. 

Shaw-- whatever _he_ had once been-- was renowned for the darkest of alchemies and torture, and it was not for nothing they called him also the Lord of Knives. The title precedes Charles' birth by more than a century and, even as Shaw encroached on Chryse Planitia, his depredations were well known. He had uses even for the most useless of prisoners; their agonized cries could be heard in Elvish encampments across moors, valleys, and-- once-- even a river. Archers and infantry elves of Jord did not communicate this in their boastful war stories but in whispers, and added the gravity of carrying misericordes to end themselves in lieu of capture.

 

Though he longs give Raven notice on this hypocrisy, he can see very easily that she believes what she is saying. She is offended, and the jut of her chin has that same righteous tilt from childhood. Without quite meaning to, Charles finds himself glancing towards Lehnsherr, whose guilty look is not quite so quick to fade this time. Loki, black magic, whispers of Kadaath… could it be his old friend is disbursing the burden of _sakanagi_ through executions? The thought is only half-formed, blasted away by the fierce sympathy evident on the Dark Lord's face.

"You _told_ her," Charles says, voice sinking like stone-heavy revelation. No, no-- worse still. The other mage may be shielding a little by virtue of more practice, but he is just as new to the full bond as Charles is, and the truth is far too close to the forefront of his mind. 

This time, however, Xavier turns his accusation on the chimera instead. "It was _you_. The Dark Lord's spy of 'great talent and stealth'." He should have known. Is not her race the most natural of saboteurs? A changeling's thin aura and magical signature are almost as fluid as their physical appearance, and Raven perfected her elvish disguise long ago. "You proved to Marko that his stronghold was not secure." The last bit grits out in frustration, for her reaction-- while pained-- holds absolutely no remorse. 

"Charles, I am so sorry…" Raven-- Mystique, Mystique!-- says. He must take care to remember the new name she has chosen, to let it be a wall between himself and things long gone. "I left shortly after Eostre, once I revealed myself and Marko refused the treaty. I wasn't there when--"

 

The white mage makes a decisive cutting motion with his hand, thankfully-- if only at the last minute-- leaving it free of any magical impetus. Xavier can see in her face that his own has lost expression, senses the frustration Erik radiates. Well, his two 'old friends' will just have to get used to his courtesan's mask. 

"Allow me to relieve your conscience. It was an accident." Those four words seem to have become one, so often has he said them. Or perhaps they are merely a collection of sounds, like the ancient chants that retain vitality only through ritual, otherwise devoid of meaning. "You have nothing to be sorry for." Faintly, the prince wishes his wintery tone had been a touch more chilly still. Perhaps then he would not be faced with the look of oddly strained compassion in those citrine eyes. "In that regard, at least."

She protests, "But they--"

"If you were not there, then you know _nothing_!" he nearly snarls. Rallying about him, his manna arcs like the many wings of the fiery _seraphim_. Erik, whose Sight is enhanced by the bond, looks entranced. And, though she may only sense it, Mystique takes a step back. 

The flare of power may force some physical distance, but Charles is sadly bereft of fortifications. Once glance at Erik's rapt expression is all the mental mage needs to be drawn into those thoughts, like the inadvertent response to the call of one's name. He seems himself as though glimpsed through colored glass, and then through a vertiginous hall of mirrors, all rippling like the most muted of waves. And why not? It is a scrying bowl in which the Dark Lord viewed Mystique's memories upon her return, just as Erik's mind is now Charles' divining glass.

 

_(The curling, scented tendrils of incense wending through a rapacious crowd; a hundred delicacies, arrayed like the rainbow in order to hide their smaller portions, whose mingling aromas are lent visceral animation by the rhythmic pounding of brass drums. All this, seen and noted by the spy. The profusion of apple blossoms and lilies wrought by sorcery from cloth (to obscure the scarcity of the genuine article) and all the added embroidery to mask worn Court regalia. It is her task to see the details, to absorb the most minuscule of tells; because her life has been long at stake in mastering this craft, much of the skill itself is now instinctual. She moves, she sees, and need not crane her head or appear any more alert than the most indulgent of the spirit-soaked crowd._

_There. Amidst all this, framed by concentric layers of marble and moonstone balconies, her gaze finds those performers who compose the evenings entertainment. No social dancing this, for Acidalium has been set ablaze with candles for Eostre Eve. Though acknowledged under many different names, almost all creatures of Jord celebrate the time of growth and renewal, and a great deal of effort has been extended to provide those food necessary to the fertility theme. Those youths and maidens newly of age for Court induction wear robes embroidered with lilies, cherries, and the obligatory virile mandrake; more than one of them will yield up their own first fruits this night. Many of these neophytes are among the performers, though they are by no means the sole contribution to the ranks._

_' **Charles** ,' Mystique's memory echoes with surprise, undulated by the scrying water and the additional echo-chamber of Erik's mind. And so she has found him, off to the left side of the spacious floor, the foci of one among many sedate, geometrical reels. Clad in a sheer vest of shimmering emerald and a man's velvet corset, he is leading the younger members with the sanguine efficiency of experience, though he is by no means the eldest of the company. There are true courtesans too, those who have apprenticed themselves to this life as surely as Charles dedicated his own to scholarship. He will never be the centerpiece here, for which he is profoundly grateful. Yet the choreography must deliberately acknowledge him at times-- the eye demands symmetry, say the retired Madames and so-called man-servants. He's so…. singularly *exotic*, as they like to say. Combine that comeliness with masculine grace, and it makes Xavier the indivisible prime number. A problem child, ever since he could toddle to the mirrored and marble bar._

_Mystique does not know these things, but Charles does-- within himself through startling recall, and also quite literally the detached observer, feeling almost the same bemused curiosity the chimera does. Certainly, the rituals look much more foreign from without. All that carefully outlined motion, minutia of joints and the flexing bipedal form, set to music that denies impulsivity. Elvish dancing at its finest. The spy's viewpoint changes a bit; she is moving amidst the gathered crowd, trying to find a better line of sight. To make matters more curious still, the white mage is aware of Erik watching the memory, and finding the angle very much wanting still. Yes, yes, the press of the audience and the caution inherent in espionage-- but Lehnsherr is impatient for a clear look at the prince's face, his Little _Maus_ fully grown. The layering of these impressions are as overwhelming to Charles as the loud Eostre horns and the press of bodies on the dance floor itself._

_As if he has leaned too far over the scrying bowl, the real and present Charles falls farther in. Now it is is fully his recollection, likely displayed for his bondmate; he has traveled the dizzying mirrors of perspective to find something visceral once more. The flush of his own body heat, the hum of well-prepared muscles exerted. His wings are folded at his back and bound beneath the deep green vest, not knowing their remaining time is slim indeed. If _he'd_ known, he would have worn them free everyday and damn the sidelong glances. But no, they are chaffing slightly as he crouches, palm to the ground, head bowed as the female dancers move through the circle. Sweat always gathers first at the stems of his filmy appendages-- he rolls his shoulders for relief, rises again. Betsy nears, face composed while her dark eyes suggest her heart began racing long before the performance began. She's probably been panicking since before she laced up her own verdant corsetry, and Charles did not have time to check in on any of the debutants in the chaos of preparations. This is her first time dancing for anything other than class or rehearsal._

_As they draw close-- briefly cheek to cheek-- he whispers, "You're doing just fine."_

_She juts her chin up just slightly, relieved enough to pretend arrogance, as they part and pass the horn-tipped staff between them. The girls have been presenting these totems of fertility, caressing and swooning over them and one another, as the dance calls for. Now comes the more martial portion, a tribute to masculine coupling, followed by an almost tantric duet aligned with the heterogeneous notion of _yin_ and _yang_._

_Xavier sinks to his knees before his new male partner, a baronet both younger and taller, not to mention just as lankily awkward as he's been at every practice. Charles himself has a fluidity of motion that makes him an acknowledged foe with the quarterstaff, and he's an ardent devotee of white crane boxing besides-- both pastimes that hold much more allure than his current one. Staff held vertically, he leans both it and himself towards his partner's strained breeches (clearly, there's no affectation needed there), glancing away from the youthful tumescence to keep from rolling his eyes. In the process, his gaze lands briefly on Lord Stryker, whose position has earned him a seat on the dais near Marko's throne. The warlord's look is avid, translating to the phantom sensation of judgmental fingertips in place of gaze alone. The evaluation of horseflesh. A pale, thick tongue slithers over thin and bearded lips. The nobleman is primed with anticipation, eager to curry favor-- not not with Charles, but with the keeper of the stable. Looking away quickly, the scholar-cum-performer cannot repress a bone-deep shudder; the desire to be away from public spectacle and in his own safe tower, to step outside his body and--)_

 

Yes, a body. Not stifled by crowds and a thousand blazing candles, but slightly chilled in a tent full of unconscious magick. Weariness clings to Charles still, but it stems from overtaxed _manna_ , not the healthy outlet of exercise. The only protesting muscles are those of his _trapezius_ and _levitator scapulae_ \-- an old ache, familiar pain-spiders that spin splinters are ghostly as they themselves. For a moment, the mundane world seems to swirl and tilt briefly, as if blood is rushing back to his head along with his attention for the present. He blinks, and Erik blinks-- each drawing away from the second Sight their new bond summons so readily. 

 

As a result of this unpredictable intimacy, only Mystique's expression betrays any confusion. She, outside their iridescent sphere of mated magicks, would have seen nothing. She can sense the power which must have flared, though, and its clear she knows a great deal of recognition and realignment of facts has taken place. Gears of a water-clock slipping into place. The Dark Lord and his general both look at Xavier expectantly, though Erik's aura betrays a predominant cresting wave in his icy ocean of anger. It isn't directed at Charles-- an aspect that occurs to the prince not because he feels any fear in that regard, but because he once more feels far too exposed. As when chamber doors are thrown open upon not merely a state of undress, but one of wounds which may only be tended alone. 

The combined gaze of his friends feels acidic, sulfuric; it takes effort to fight down the shame-- cyclopean compared to the pin-prick of embarrassment during the performance-- of having been seen and, in Erik's case, _known_. At having been caught, as it were, at something all three of them once mocked, swearing _they_ would never dance for Court. Oh, that childish disdain for adult ritual, it's alien nature rendering unfathomable sensuality all the more ridiculous. _'_I_ will never do that-- why would anyone _ever_ do that?'_ Naive, thinking their standards impregnable, their selves immune to pressure. Yet it is nothing, nothing, once the warped kaleidoscope of childhood's perspective is cast aside.

Having no need of disdain from his enemies in any case, Charles turns away from both of them. He faces the canvas wall of the tent, gaze stalwartly tracing the nonsense burns left by his earlier wild sorcery. He wants to tell them to measure his pain to theirs, knowing they will find it sorely lacking. To tell them that the certainties of childhood fade, that one's personhood and beliefs come under constant attack. That the very things that anchor-- protective loyalties, affections, obligations-- ensure that you compromise, compromise, and compromise more still. He will fling these words at their feet so that they might laugh in his face and ask him what he, spoiled little heir whose mother went to such lengths for mere creature comforts, could _ever_ know about suffering. Poor little prince, pretending patience for hypocrites while his friends were likely whipped bloody; enduring only meaningless ritual rather than Shaw's cruel hand. Pretending that trading his frivolous compromises, even those of his body, could do anything more than pale in the dark-light of slavery. Smile when you're told to, present the correct facade, spread your metaphorical (and sometimes otherwise) legs. How hard a life is that?

_'You waste your wishes, Little Maus,'_ Erik had said, and it is likely true. Their experiences are too divergent, even antithetical, for them to share priorities. If not for a spiritual cord forged by two innocent boys, Charles would have died by the sword of one or another of Lehnsherr's warriors-- perhaps have been slain even by Erik himself. Of course, if the braiding of that link had not occurred, the Dark Lord would not have felt the same draw towards Acidalium. They wouldn't be here, with thousands of dead at their feet.

 

If wishes have been wasted, then words need not be. Charles has enough experience, at least, to know that arguing is often useless; the other party will think what they like, no matter what you say. 

Clenching and unclenching his fists to echo the most rudimentary of arithmancy exercises, he says quite calmly, "Yes, I see. I see very well." He does not turn to face either of them, too busy listening to the tones he produces, ensuring they are perfectly inoffensive. Each time he looks at the warrior-maid, he experiences afresh instinctive relief and nostalgia at the knowledge she has survived-- feelings far too open to exploitation. "Thank you for that illuminating discussion, R-- Mystique. Please leave us."

Erik speaks before she can do anything more than draw breath to argue. "You heard my consort; leave us. He commands you as much as I."

 

 

It takes talent to make the click of boots and a sharp salute seem vindictive, but Xavier watches Mystique's shadow do exactly that. The tent-flap rustles and, all too predictably, he feels Erik draw close behind him, deadly hands gripping his upper arms through the furs. Even through those thick layers, which have not quite calmed the elf-prince's shivering, the weight and press of his bondmate communicates a vital warmth. Sinuous, seeping like liquid flame. A strong arm encircles Charles' waist, as snake-like in its coiled muscle as it in its swift movement. Erik is tenderly nuzzling his hair.

"We were interrupted," the Dark Lord says, all too gently. "I had hoped--"

Xavier is not interested in the other mage's hopes-- void-colored things which have grown in the blackest cockles of the heart, and which likely bear far too much resemblance to the desires of Charles' own under-mind. "Tell me of the casualties, Erik."

"You asked for answers--" And well he knows the sound of the Lehnsherr boy hedging.

"So answer me right now."

 

Unsurprisingly, the grip tightens, but not painfully so. Charles stares more fixedly at the patterns on the canvas wall, wondering if the dream/nightmare state of mind in which they were wrought could have lent any meaning to them. Perhaps he may read them as his own internal runes, though he has likely discovered enough unpleasant things about himself for today.

"We're still counting," the warrior says at last, while Charles huffs a laugh which would be more at home as a carrion-bird's cry.

"Surely you must have _some_ idea by now." He frowns, though his companion cannot see it. "How long have I been…"

"Indisposed?" Lehnsherr actually uses the phrase without any irony. "It is roughly the fourteenth toll of the following day."

At this, Xavier turns, shrugging off the other man's hold. "So long? I need to see my students, I--" With dawning horror, "You mocked the oaths I asked for! Whom have you already killed?"

"I have executed no one." Said with bland self-righteousness-- unfortunately, the most difficult to disbelieve. "There are prisoners, yes, not to mention fugitives and deserters. And we have our own dead to count." 

Charles raises an imperious eyebrow, wordlessly implying, 'Yes, that was my question.' The muscle in Erik's jaw twitches in what is most likely annoyance, but he has no one to blame for reversion back to the original subject save himself. The silence holds, and the prince manfully refrains from crossing his arms expectantly. 

Finally, "Between fifteen and twenty maniples, for the Elves, plus a score of your elite archers. All provision numbers, as those commanders we've captured are reluctant to give the original figures."

 

So _many_. The archers suffered the least amount of loss, which is fairly typical-- they are, as Lehnsherr said, an elite order. The weight of the dead will have fallen to the younger soldiers, and to those citizens pressed into war-service out of sheer desperation. So much of their martial number had been lost throughout the preceding battle, and Charles knows with perfect, tomb-stone clarity that the Elves will never again raise enough arms to replace the loss. Children, the infirm, the nobility which has not fled or committed ritual suicide, and the scholar mages; these are the primary remnants of their once-great kingdom, now. Even as his stomach turns, rotting through with guilt and loss, Xavier takes note that no sorcerous casualties were mentioned. Such things are unusual in any case, but he had feared his colleagues and students might be mistaken for combatants if Hank did execute their escape plan. 

"Of course they won't give you the numbers," he manages. "You'll get no help from me in that quarter, either. Marko was very particular about ensuring I had as little strategic input and exposure as possible." The scholar shakes his head a bit, marveling at how distant yesterday seems-- a morning which began in his locked tower, where he watched the sorcerous snowfall and the assault on Acidalium's wards. How well founded that turned out to be.

"At least four maniples surrendered willingly," Erik says, in a tone that might pass for placating. "And my orders were that civilians-- women and children, the cloistered-- be spared."

"Many an army makes that claim," Charles scoffs. Privately, he must acknowledge that Shaw and Marko considered all three of those groups, as well as schools and libraries, to be *very* appropriate targets."

"The Free People lost only a third of the Elvish casualties," Lehnsherr continues, ignoring the aside. "Of course, our frontal assault involved smaller forces to begin with."

"Because you attacked from behind as well!" Xavier explodes, unable to repress wild gesticulation with his arms, and losing quite a few furs in the process. "From the mountains-- from Leng! Are you _quite_ mad?"

A smirk plays about those thin, well-sculpted lips. "I finished what my 'mentor' began… though to a different end."

"The very ground of Leng has soured," Charles says, belatedly realizing his tone is very similar to one he uses with certain recalcitrant students. "The blasphemies which tread there were so potent that the corruption of their presence has lingered all these centuries!" 

 

He cannot refrain from stressing these words, though he can hardly be telling the _Dark Lord_ anything the conquer-mage does not know himself. To have learned at Shaw's feet would have given Erik access to far greater realms of blasphemous knowledge than the vague, whispered histories the Elves have maintained. Lehnsherr is bold, there is no doubt, having grown into a warrior's confidence as surely as his once-lanky body has fulfilled its promise of strength. Can it be that his arrogance-- likely well founded, if he slew Shaw-- has reached such heights that he presumes impunity even from those traces of the Elder gods? Or is it the addition of Charles' own profound magickal strength to his arsenal that has convinced him he's invincible? In either case, if such might is truly his… then all the magistrates of hell cannot protect Jord from however the Dark Lord wishes to shape it.

"Indeed," Erik replies with alarming insouciance. "Shaw sought their leavings. And we have found ruins, the mere desiccated skeleton of what must once have been a mighty and ineffably strange civilization. The tales of Alhazred are correct. There is no life here, though there are still a few… inhabitants."

Out of sheer instinct, Charles summons up enough _manna_ to trace the Yellow Sign protectively in the air. He can't help but fixate on the word 'here'; the shuddering likelihood that they are in or beyond the Forbidden Mountains even now. To the scholar's great annoyance, his use of the obscure metaphysical talisman provokes no real reaction from his captor save the voracious admiration with which he is becoming all too familiar. For all the seeming simplicity of the symbol itself, it requires a great deal of power and deft skill to complete the silent enchantments behind the Yellow Sign. Xavier himself is one of the few mages in Acidalium who can accomplish the task, and he is a great deal younger than the others masters who hold such claim. It is clear from the summer-lightning blaze in those green eyes that Erik finds such exhibitions of power very attractive from his bondmate. Valiantly, the prince does his best to ignore both this and the little fissions of pleasure that chase along the bond, but he is so used to being chastised for 'showing off' that he cannot help but flush anyway. 

The thought that he may be standing on the very outskirts of Leng isn't just alarming-- it's disheartening in the extreme. No Elvish cartography extends beyond the single mountain into which it was built. Even if there were some opportunity for Hank and the children to… Charles buries the thought as swiftly as one trying to smother a fire. Suffice to say that any citizen of Jord would be entirely lost to the east of its final-- and now fallen-- outpost.

"Surely," Xavier says carefully, "You have not slated such a place for *conquest*?"

"Shaw had schemes to that effect," Erik seems both disdainful and amused by this. "But I have told you, my love, that I am not Shaw." He's too close again, having accomplished this by surreptitious inches. One large palm now creeps back to Charles' shoulder. "And I think you know that."

 

A long moments of silence follow, so complete that when a drop of jam-- another drying remnant of subconscious magick-- falls against the prince's quarterstaff, the resulting 'plink' sounds more like the discharge of some exotic hand-canon. Lehnsherr draws his captive closer, but he hardly seems to be aware of it, thoughts and gaze focused somewhere beyond the tent's confines. Despite himself, Charles is stuck by the unconscious ease of their physicality. No longer rendered intolerably vivid with freshness and possession, the link between them throbs only with a torpid desire for closeness, for reaffirming communion and physicality. 

"The Lord of Carnage was a demon… a once-man… of singular focus," Erik says quietly. His tone is firm, though-- remote, factual. It is not necessarily fear Charles senses from him, but the superstitious dread of pain the prince himself experiences when recalling the loss of his wings. The memory of having suffered at such a high pitch becomes at once unreal and a specter of behemoth proportions. Unable to store the experience or bear to recall such agony, the mind it shrinks from memory for fear the mere thought might cause it to return. As if, like the devil, that bloody angel will manifest at the nearest mention, ready to inspect its handiwork or take another pound of flesh still. 

It is the fear of the memory of fear-- of crushing, transcendent horror-- that passes through the two of them like ground-lightning. Lehnsherr puts both arms around his old friend, a motion less consciously protective than it is the instinctive care with which one would shield their own viscera. Absurdly, Xavier thinks of nereids, whose primary endearment loosely translates to 'as dear as my own gills'. 

"Do you remember, just before Shaw came?" Erik sounds suddenly very young. "Sitting in the sand-cellar, listening to the storm, not knowing if the simoon came from Nature herself, or as the herald of Shaw's forces?" The prince remembers well, indeed. How his friend would lay out the many knives he forged and re-forged as the smithy's apprentice, the sound of his whetstone drowning out whatever quiet conversation might drift over from his parents. Smiling with sharp bravado, he would show Charles how to grip the different hilts properly, until one of the adults-- usually Jakob-- told him such bloodlust was unbecoming. Then young Lehnsherr would draw his little brother closer, as though they were huddling for warmth, and whisper where one must cut for the killing blow, how one must block and look for weaknesses in the adversary's ill-made weapon. "We did well to be afraid," the older mage murmurs. "Nothing meant anything to Shaw unless it could be deconstructed, and it ceased to interest him the moment he succeeded in reducing it to useless pieces."

The Dark Lord's embrace is on the verge of becoming uncomfortably tight, but Charles' hands come up to find their own painful grip soon enough. He should not be surprised, especially given the ease and acuity the bond has exhibited so far but, when they come, the images are hellish and toxic. Etched in the nauseous anxiety of a young boy, they are at once misshapen and accurate; nightmare that is worse because it is true. Xavier gasps, and Erik cradles him close, hand cupping the scholar's skull, the way one would use their own body as a shield during an explosion. 

 

_(here, most readily, a whisp-- conjured by Charles' discomfort, by the memory of the Elvish dance. it has been waiting:_

_When she walks past him, every motion is imbued with her natural grace. Dark hair, darker eyes, skin like the bronze reeds of Chryse autumn. She has been as kind to him as their shared slavery will allow; an extra ladle of water, a dropped bread crust, a glance of sympathy. The last of these is all he can give her now, as she is summoned to their Lord and Master, clad in naught but a cape as red as the wounds she will doubtless receive. Too risky for even a pained smile, so she quirks her lip ever so slightly as their gazes meet-- the language of absolute subtlety learned by conspiring chattel. They are not friends or even comrades, for theirs is a world of constant eyes and quick tongues. Perhaps six words have passed between them, all told. Aside from the occasional glimpse of Raven during sword drills or long marches, this girl has been the only source of comfort he has known since his old life was razed to the ground. He cannot, he must not, think of his precious secret as any more than a brush of shadow in the far, nether regions of his mind-- it is dark enough there that such may go unnoticed, though it is still risky. He should be braver, stronger, a better protector; for if his Master finds that star's glow of warmth, then the fate of Erik's treasure will be the fate of all good things. Worse still, for being the most beloved of blessings._

_The black folds of the massive tent pavilion swallow her, with a burst of cymbals like a beast's satisfied rumble. Lord Shaw wants music, and maiden to dance the oldest of dances to his sinister piper's tune. He voices these demands in the same tone he uses to order great feasts for himself, and he considers himself a gourmand in every sense. Proof of this is exposed in brief flashes as Magda-- that is her name, Magda-- moves for, though she holds the cloak closed with white-knuckled hands, her thighs and calves are still occasionally visible. The teeth marks scattered there are deep, livid; the same teeth which gobble up rare desert succulents and gnash happily at slabs of steak that still bleed. Appropriative magick, Shaw calls it; and what is more appropriative than consumption? He eats the hearts of enemy commanders, and sometimes of his own warriors who have showed too much prowess. Their Master breaks open bones and sucks the marrow out like honey._

_Magda has danced for the Lord of Carnage for an entire lunar cycle. After this night, a full moon of screams and wet glistening on ebony canvas, Erik will never see her again.)_

 

The sorrow-sick memory does not fade as the others Charles and his bondmate have shared-- rather, it cleaves in two with great suddenness, as if a flame has been touched to the delicate strands that associate image with image. There was something behind that gaunt, final gaze from the girl Erik might have called friend in a better life. Another recollection, potent and unruly as all things from the depths of the self, but whose scorching darkness has now been blunted and shut away. Very distantly, the scholar retains enough presence to of mind to hope that, given his own conscious knowledge of and practice with this connection, he will someday be able to manipulate it just as adroitly. 

It is a dim consideration, and perhaps gives too generous a view of Erik's skill, for the form sheltering the prince is shivering almost uncontrollably. Xavier himself is left gasping against the hollow of the Dark Lord's throat, where his face has been protectively pressed for some unknown but lengthy period of time. The coppery, old-forest scent of his old friend is strong, the pounding of the carotid beneath Charles' own cheek like a ghost-horse at full gallop. This close, he can see the throbbing pulse as well as feel it, and it would only be a matter of turning his head slightly to soothe it with his lips.

Charles shakes the notion away (thrice-blasted bond!), and lets the empirical world radiate outward from this one observation. Reality seems almost frantically vibrant; the feel of dragon-hide against his finger tips where he has sought in vain to find purchase, the dwindling lantern-light, and the certainty of packed earth beneath his bare feet. Without his furs, the cold is starting to creep back in around his shoulders, but it is easily subsumed by the faint rocking motion Lehnsherr has adopted. 

 

A macabre joke, all of this. The bond, Charles' survival at the expense of his people, Erik's insistence that any life beyond the one so recently shattered could ever be constructed from the ruins. Every mage knows that the soul is its own wilderness. No matter how well you think you know yourself, no matter what esoteric degree of mastery you achieve-- no one will ever have the complete cartography of their own inner world. A blessing from the Nameless G-d, since-- be one human, Elf, Faey, or otherwise-- the worst demons are always carried within. Any alliance between himself and Erik only multiplies that inner throng. Dangerous, dangerous, for Charles knows in this moment

_(for Charles prayed, he _did_: 'save him, spare him, protect him. let the dye be cast as it may, only guard him zealously if i cannot. if Erik lives-- and he _must_!,' cries that childish voice, 'then let him live always, and have the happiness i cannot'.)_

that he would run the seas to crimson if he thought it would give Erik peace.

 

For all the turmoil roiling within both sorcerers, the resultant magickal impact has at least lessened. Though Charles' view is somewhat impeded by the cave-like embrace, the only true change he can see lies in the pile of rabbit pelts,with its multitude of grotesquely blinking eyes, which once rested in the far corner. It has transmuted-- _devolved_ \-- into a mass of lacquered insects which promptly scuttle in every direction, though they give both mages wide birth. The nasty little things look like carrion beetles but, while unpleasant, are somewhat predictable given the unstable energies from which Erik accidentally conjured them. All else remains unchanged, including the rubies scattered on the earthen floor-- perhaps because the Dark Lord was actively thinking of his bondmate when he transfigured them from Charles' own nightmare maggots. Xavier actually steps on one as Lehnsherr bows a little over him, apparently convinced they are not close enough already.

"Let me go," the prince whispers, ashamed at the depth of the protectiveness within. His voice is hoarse, as though he hasn't spoken in all the years that separate them from the memory they've just witnessed. It occurs to Xavier that this swaying embrace is not unlike the way Erik would rock them both, when they were both very young and the simoons assaulted their shelter door with wind and merciless sand. What was Shaw, if not the worst storm to ever blow out of Nod? Yet _they_ two, he and Erik, are still here. The vicious victory in this thought prompts him to say again, "Let me go."

 

The Dark Lord drops his hands at his sides, but Charles is still pressed against him. It takes the younger man a moment to realize this is because his own grip refuses to slacken, and another moment still to force those fists to relax. He doesn't spring back as if burned-- that would be too telling-- but he cannot meet Erik's gaze.

"You ask, and I obey," Lehnsherr says. When he looks up, the scholar finds a sardonic smile tugging at his captor's lips. Not mocking, but more as if Erik expects this observation to elicit laughter from them both. 

_'If only it were that easy,'_ Xavier muses, wise enough to confine the sentiment to the thinnest sliver of thought. If the bond could be broken, he would leave now-- he _would_!-- with the children in tow, and not look back. 

"Shaw is dead," Lehnsherr seems to be tasting the words, marveling over them almost anew. And then, either because he isn't shielding or because he doesn't care if Charles hears: 

_(dead/gone/torn-to-pieces shadow man; you are dead, monster, so stay that way and never see, never set one filthy foot near my dear Little Maus)_

 

Dry mouthed, choosing to ignore the almost-catechism, the prince prompts, "So you said. You said you killed him."

"Oh, yes!" the Dark Lord says with a full display of teeth. "I stabbed him through, and took back what was mine." His hand lifts, utterly without ostentation, to finger the pendant. "Then I threw him, bleeding but alive, to the servants of those he would have petitioned for power. And did he scream? Oh, ever so much!"

The core of this a child's relish; vengeance folded over time and again like a master swordsman's blade; mulled like wine, distilled. Whatever his intentions in choosing an apprentice, Shaw was actually writing the future in his own blood. It is not Erik that Charles is afraid of, though, or even the obvious delight in murder-- it is the _capacity_ he sees that terrifies him. And the temptation. A will like that could command the sun to stand still, or move backwards; blaze a path towards its desire and leave everything else burning in its wake.

"It's alright," the Dark Lord murmurs, far too gently. Charles can see his reflection in his friend's moon-void pupils, the distress written on his own face. Lehnsherr has withdrawn only a pace or so, still too close to truly be free of that siren draw, but at least he holds both hands up in the universal invocation of the unarmed. "I will always protect--"

 

Charles holds up his own hand as if to push the words away. He does not want them, or the guilt and obligation that lie within their comforting facade. "I am grown now, Erik, as you are. My own man-- a fighter, if not a warrior, and a prince in my own right." Distantly, he observes Lehnsherr's reaction as being more confused than contradictory, as if he cannot see what the first subject has to do with the second. Casting his mind back fretfully for the original thread of their discussion, Xavier cannot help but wonder if talking with Erik will always be like this-- a circuitous snake eating its own tail. One certainly hopes not, as the whole affair is exhausting.

"If any more of my kinsmen surrender, do not kill them," he says, wavering between plea and command.

The dark mage nods, lowering his hands and shifting awkwardly, as if he is no longer quite sure what to do with them if he cannot place them where he likes. "As my oaths ensure; in returning to Acidalium, they would be beyond my reach. You have done your duty by them."

Charles chuckles darkly, shaking his head at the notion, and persists, "Let my people bury their dead."

"That task has began-- I'll not stand in their way." Edging closer again, damn him-- Xavier can practically see the other man's body hum with anticipation. As the black-smith's apprentice, Erik had always been praised for his single-minded focus, but this is approaching ridiculous. 

"Then I want to see the children." At Lehnsherr's frown, he elaborates, "My students," and narrowly refrains from rolling his eyes. 

"They're quite alright." The honesty is also somewhat dismissive. "One of my lieutenants situated them in the Healer's tent-- away from the worst of the wounded," the warrior adds quickly. "They're being given every courtesy. I would never treat your charges as prisoners, dear." Having apparently settled this matter to _his_ satisfaction, Erik says, "You haven't eaten nearly enough--" 

"Must I repeat myself?" Charles asks, exaggerating his tone to match his profession. "If I am to be your legal consort, then show me the respect due the position. Or am I a hostage even within your own camp?" Laughing bitterly as the thought occurs to him, "Surely if you filled my step-father's Court with spies, you can let me out of your sight amongst your own followers."

"You _are_ my legal consort," Lehnsherr says with satisfaction, predictably choosing the most lunatic aspect of the situation to fixate upon. "*My* regnant."

Not wishing to indulge Erik's apparent fascination with possessive pronouns, Xavier makes a willfully dismissive gesture. "Then leave me, so I can change."

 

Though he does move as if to go, the Dark Lord seems compelled to offer one last ploy. "If you wish to block the bond, perhaps we might meditate now. Together."

While the eyebrow he raises is one of disbelief, the prince inwardly congratulates himself. If nothing else, the uncomfortable and inadvertent sharing they've already encountered has proved enough incentive for Lehnsherr to concede them both their privacy. The borderlands of their bond will need clear delineation, as meticulous as those new territories carved by any post-war convention, but Xavier has no intention of surveying that landscape with his mate actually in tow. It will likely be… treacherous enough as it is. 

"I have responsibilities," he replies cooly. "Though, mark me, I will see to my shielding soon enough." It's in him to wonder if perhaps Erik isn't trying to hide something, or at least delay its revelation, but even the slightest skin over their connection reveals something far simpler and more damning. Quite plainly, Lehnsherr is reluctant to leave Charles' side, half expecting his 'treasure' to be snatched away by jealous gods. The fervent, clutching pull from his end of the bond is evidence enough of that.

Blushing at this ardor would be foolish, so Xavier forces it to become a minuscule smirk of triumph he cannot fully relish. Erik shouldn't be the only one allowed to manipulate the emotional dynamics here. The other mage appears caught, then (incongruously!) a bit sulky, before these emotions at last resolve themselves into an expression that evokes a vertiginous sense of deja vu. Oh, does Charles know that warning gleam in those smelt-green eyes! It grudgingly acknowledges the prince's victory, but states very clearly that Erik will charge his friend for it later-- likely at the most unexpected and inopportune moment. 

"Very well then," the Dark Lord murmurs, with an unnecessarily ironic bow. Without another word, he turns, leaving the heavy canvas to flap a pitiful time or two in his wake. The warrior's tred is heavy enough to be heard, but it *does* recede, and no shadow comes to play beyond the curtain. When it finally hangs still, Xavier is afforded what will very likely be the most privacy he can hope for in the foreseeable future.

 

Charles wastes no time in exploiting this, and the few unexpected resources Erik has unwittingly handed him. 

 

  
.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [+] _morganatic_ \- a marriage or union between a member of royalty/nobility and someone of a lower rank, in which the lower member forfeits all claim to power, recognition, or legitimacy for their offspring.  
> *[+] _maniple_ \- in the Roman army, a unit of 120 men. Different types of maniples had different roles during a battle, with younger soldiers closer to the front lines. Elvish casualties run between 1,800 and 2,400 for infantry alone.  
> [+] **The Yellow Sign** \- used by Lovecraft and later Mythos writers, but actually conceived of by Robert W. Chambers in his book The King In Yellow. The sign is associated with secret cults, ancient wisdom, and an extra-dimensional prince/god called Hastur, and can be used to ward off other malevolent powers. The King In Yellow revolves around a fictional play of the same name; reading the first act causes mental disturbances, and reading the second drives you completely mad. Good times! ;-)  
> [+] **Alhazred** \- Abdul Alhazred, from H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu mythos cycle. He is the author of the Necronomicon, a rare and forbidden text which details secrets of the Elder gods and hints at the location of Kadaath.
> 
> ... and to think my mother always worried about the books I brought home from the library. So unfounded, right? ^_~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to make like a hobbit this year and give a quasi-present out for my birthday (except we're calling it a 'solar return' because I don't want Father Time to find me and actually add a year ^_~). Maybe it's not really a present, but I'm ridiculously excited for managing two chapters of this in less than six months. For me that's like… Quicksilver-speed! 
> 
> An _enormous_ 'thank you' goes out everyone who's been so encouraging about this glacially slow fic. As always, I'm so glad you're taking the time to read my story. If I could bother you a bit more to leave kudos or a few words as comment, I'd be very grateful. That said, please find the latest chapter; in which Charles' receives some (more) unexpected news, finally gets out of that tent, meets some people, and gets Erik to leave him unattended for more than five seconds. ^^;;

( _The older a story is, the stronger it gets._

_'Once,' said Edie Lehnsherr-- Edie, who had herself accepted the divine punishment for loving a mortal man. 'Once when all the world was green and young, there lived two little boys…'_

_Two little boys, then. In the forest, hands linked as each footstep takes them further from all that is known. Here they are on the borderlands, which appropriately blur with thick shadows and the endless dappling of emerald glow._

_"And what happened next?" was Erik's ritual question, posed first to his mother and then, as they grew older and the thread of the story passed hands, Charles himself. Edie had always smiled slightly, eyes deep and knowing like the sphinx, reflecting only a portion of the myriad secrets within. Charles would bite his lip, pondering, knowing his friend expected wonders, and more wonders still._

_The boys have passed into the kingdom of Other, where there is nothing you do not bring with you; the great blank scroll left when one falls off the map of the world._

_"What do you think happens?" the prince learned to ask, tilting his chin up at the boy he considered his brother; the friend whose only distance lay in not being cleaved from the moon-round flesh of the same woman. The young scholar would wish, in the silence spinning out from his challenge, that these blood ties could be true. Erik, sitting by the hearth in his own modest home, or leaning against the window seat in Charles' vast bedchamber, would keep his own counsel. Ruminating over his next narrative dare, gaze never wavering from the cyan eyes so unlike his own._

_The boys pass through great deserts, where winged foxes burrow in the sand; jungles where there grow great blue vines that taste like licorice; wastelands in which ogres argue over diamonds the size of grown oxen._

_"A moon-bog full of werewolves!" Erik might suggest. A necropolis peoples by cannibals, a mine haunted by ghosts. Charles would take these brilliant beads of inspiration and weave; the story was always different but, because the two boys were together, it was also always the same. The young prince might frighten himself a little, on occasion feeling the sharp edge of his own vivid imagination as he conceived such tales, for his friend had grown taller and was known to expect a certain level of gruesome flare._

_"Yes, but *how* to the bandits intend to execute them?" the blacksmith's apprentice might ask, pressing Charles close to his side. "How is he going to kill a demon that lives in a mirror?" Always close, coaxing, and-- though the prince well knew Erik wasn't truly scared-- letting Charles' shivers pass into him, echo in his own form._

_"Fear not, Little Maus-- I'm right beside you. Tell on.")_

 

 

Charles is grown now, and he knows the fabulous lands of any fable are really only a reflection of the strangeness found within oneself. Never the less, he is struck by a powerful sense of both deja vu and alienation, as though seeing something intimately familiar bent backwards and over itself until it is almost unrecognizable. Which is odd, in a way, since he could never have imagined the true nature of the Free People's camp.

To be sure, the first impression is simply one of overwhelming visual discordance. But Xavier is a child of that massive, vanished capital, Chryse Planitia. He summered in the warren-city of Phelgra in better days, and had thought Acidalium-- increasingly crowded with refugees and drowning in its own infrastructure-- would be his tomb. Large crowds are not unknown to him, nor is he much discommoded as long as he is amongst the organic mass and not

_(on display, keep up with the tempo, they're watching, next they'll want to check my teeth)_

involved in elaborate ritual. There are a great many beings in the enemy's encampment, a fact made more disturbing by the knowledge that a good number more must be billeted on the other side of Acidalium. A convergence of conquerers from all sides-- and to think they'd fancied themselves able to estimate the Dark Lord's resources at all!

While the camp itself is similar to many others, half-way staked in the changeless country of the caravansary, it is quite creatively situated and the Free People themselves dizzyingly varied. Within the confines of the tent, Charles had judged the time closer to dusk despite the hour Erik reported. He'd based his estimate solely on the limited ambient light and noise, and the fires whose outlines he had been able to discern despite the thick linen and canvas. It seems, however, that the enemy has found something far better than a box canyon to shelter themselves in, and they have done so with conspicuous silence.  
They have partaken of Erik's audacity and made camp in an ancient, prodigious cave. 

 

The ceiling is well nigh higher than many of Acidalium's jasper and marble towers, and its cyclopean dimensions are such that the variegated overhang and distant depths merge in that particular confusion usually seen only where sea meets sky. The more the scholar gazes on the subtly disquieting angles, the unnaturally harmonious arrangement of stalactites and outcroppings, the less he likes the place. There is an odd element of utility and… appropriation… in what is also obviously a natural, if rather large, geological formation. Xavier recalls, shudderingly, the whispers of Alhazred and the few others foolish enough to trespass near Leng and lucky-- or damned-- enough to survive. Shaw, Erik had said, had sought leavings-- not without reason, for there is just enough literary evidence to suggest _something_ had once lived or out posted in the fearsome peaks. Involuntarily, the prince casts a leery glance over his shoulder, craning to see past the tent, and is relieved to see a distant but definite irregular archway of light. The mouth of the cave; leading to places as unknown as the viscous darkness, but presenting at least a far more traditional escape.

 

Charles isn't going anywhere, of course, save the few feet to where Erik awaits him. He doesn't need to look to feel the full weight of those piercing eyes, as sure as a hand at the small of his back or the purposeful encircling of a wrist, and so he takes his time. A true politician, as Lady Mother so often said, reconnoiters more thoroughly than any soldier. Indeed, Xavier is struck with an unexpected nostalgia for her; throughout much of his life, Lady Sharon has been the only other faey within the royal keep, if not the city itself. After they fled the capital, she was the only pureblood not of Elvish stock in their community, something even her son could not claim. She was a source of great contention and, like any exotic and thorn-bearing flower, she thrived on it. She swept through a room as though carelessly parting invisible swaths of the dislike directed at her; she had a way of smiling faintly that was worse than condemnation, and it seemed she must have been born with those hazel eyes narrowed in assessment. Her obvious difference

_( **she** kept her wings, though she bound them-- contriving to artfully display their stems as though they were an ornamental part of her gown)_

was a matter for open disapproval, though rarely expressed to her face. Those in the Court said Kurt kept an exotic whore, that he might couple next with a faun or gnome, powers help them! Yet those who did confront Lady Sharon herself would be met with an expression of polite inquiry, as though she thought they had said something foolish but, perhaps, had not quite heard. 'Always ask them to repeat themselves,' she would tell Charles, frowning over needlework she did not have the patience for. 'Most aren't brave enough to volley the insult twice. 

 

Just standing mere steps from the canvas threshold, Charles can spot _three_ other faey making their way through the aisles between tents. The first is a red-headed youth, gamely carrying a sack of barley and a precariously balanced clay jug in his arms. His wings-- the color of old ivory, mottled with veins of brown-- twitch in that slight, unconscious motion seen also in cat's tails. He's of the Dark Court, like Angel, if the broad swirls of tattooing visible beneath his leather armor are anything to go by. As is the woman lovingly cleaning her sword nearby-- hair and wings red like flame, the latter ragged and tipped with ebony. Then, following the youth in a far more stately manner, a dark-skinned male with wings like polished steel. At first, Charles is surprised, thinking it odd to find a southern fay so far from home. As his gaze lingers, that astonishment turns to shock, for he sees the solider has also a basilisk's tail. 

Of course. Shaw's crusade for purity applied only to humans, the race least disposed to natural magickal talent. It was their blood he wished to wipe from Jord, to breed out of his soldiers, though he was a hypocrite when forced to chose between principle and raw skill. Erik's own father was human, the celestial elements of his mother proving (unsurprisingly) far stronger in the mix, endowing her untried infant with powers many human man worked a lifetime to attain. The Elves, too, were despised by Shaw-- though not for sorcerous disposition. For centuries the kingdom of Jord stood between the Lord of Nod and total domination of all known lands; it was said that the grandfather of Charles' grandfather was the first hold the border when Shaw, then a mere bandit-mage, waged his first attack. But the foe himself was not averse to a mixture of their blood. Of any blood, indeed, that might help him cultivate stronger soldiers and slaves. 

A few moments in the busy camp-compound are proof enough of that. By the fire, there stands a sturdy elf-man whose feathery hair and beak of a nose betray griffin heritage. The teamster directing horses, _arassas_ , and _manticores_ is another dark-skinned basilisk whose collar does not quite hide the vestigial gills of a nereid. Two dwarves, one with the hairy hind-quarters of a sphinx, seem to be arguing over the placement of barrels. Darting by, swift as you please, comes a dryad maid with satyr's horns who seems to be chasing a reddish wolf-creature with a streak of white in its tail. Charles could spend hours observing these beings-- many of whom he has only read about-- but he does his best to take in the whole of the setting without staring at anyone in particular. It is a courtesy he always takes care to extend; now more than ever, because he longs for it so much in return.

Everyone goes about in an unnerving manner of vague expectancy; the ordinary business and bustle of camp carried on with all typical action, but with a dampening of sound that makes it all seem unreal. He has never before encountered such a quality of quiet boisterousness, a dependence on the animation of language rather than volume. The few snatches of conversation that do drift towards him are couched in a patois that appears to be as much a hybrid as those who speak it-- a mixture of Jord's common Low Tongue, with a smattering of faey, elvish, and a guttural speech Charles can only assume is some kind of dwarvish or ogre dialect. The gestures of those communicating-- decisive, dynamic, but by no means expansive-- seem to fill in the gaps between spoken language, involving not just hands but tails, wings, and the occasional puff of flame. As if to underscore this, yet another wolf trots by, seeming to actually 'bark' orders at a few foot soldiers lingering by the fire. 

 

"You have werewolves in your midst," Charles says wonderingly, having reached Erik's side. A minimal distance, to be sure, since the Dark Lord has all but planted himself, arms crossed and stance at half parade rest, by a neighboring tent. There are dozens of other's rank and file behind it. Lehnsherr seems to have chosen it for the virtue of being directly within eyesight of his 'guests' accommodations and-- from the rustling and brief glimpses of eyes behind canvas flaps-- there are quite a few youths beside themselves with terror or honor. Given what Charles as seen so far, it may very well be both. Mystique, standing beside her leader, managed to look proud, while simultaneously rolling her eyes. 

"Aye," she says, sharp grin making itself known once more. "After Liberation, our Lord was able to broker a treaty with the wolves. They were impressed by his strength and honor. 'Tis the Howlett clan you see here-- their contribution to our efforts."

Charles nods slowly, both to hide his alarm at this news and to stall the questions leaping to his lips. The scholar in him is writhing to a fever-pitch, for the causes and transmission of lycanthropy, while shrouded in mystery, are only the least of those secrets concealed by fiercely loyal covens. Packs which, throughout Elvish history, have been tortuously isolationist. 

 

If Erik registers the flattery from his second, he gives no sign. His gaze is predictably fixed on Charles, and an old smile graces his lips-- a sort of boyish accomplishment. 

" _There_ ," he says, reaching out to adjust the sable-gold fur against Xavier's neck, as if the collar hadn't been positioned quite well enough to keep the prince warm. "I have little use for such finery, but it looks very well on you."

Somewhat prepared for this, the scholar is able to level only a cool glance at his new bondmate, rather than coloring. The paleness of his skin makes even the faintest blush seem vivid and is-- as Lady Mother so often pointed out-- an unfortunate chink in his poise. It had been obvious, before he even donned the _changsan_ jacket, to whom it must belong. Or to whom it would have been in tribute, more likely-- as Lehnsherr said, the uses for such luxury on the battlefield are few, no matter how sturdy the workmanship. A broad, horizontal swath of the garment has been sown of shimmering ebony samite, embroidered with gold and silver dragons in the midst of a picturesque dispute and giving the impression of a wide sash. The rest is of violet satin quilted over rich wool-- the shoulders of the jacket far exceed Charles' own, and the sleeves could probably be rolled up twice more, if not for the fact they're keeping his hands warm. 

He's left his tunic on underneath, carrying the ripped sash bundled in his arms. While not of ideal material, the rags might be used for wrapping wounds later; at the moment, they assist him in concealing an additional prize. Charles has contrived to drape these remnants casually over one arm, though a part of him now wishes he'd chosen the sturdy boots for a hiding place instead. The borrowed footwear rises a good way up his calves and, thanks to the length of the jacket, it and his knee breeches are enough to protect his legs from the pervasive chill. Given Erik's pleasure at the current attire, Charles is in no hurry to borrow anything more than necessary, and trousers would be high on that list. He's well aware, though, that pride will doubtless war often with practicality if the rest of the environs are this cold.

 

For all the disquiet the cave causes Xavier, he's grateful for the shelter against any possible wind. There are a number of fires and torches arranged in the aisles intersections but, beyond their more temperate radius, he can see individuals whose conversations are interspersed with small, mostly white plumes of breath. Charles' heart sinks lower still, a feat in and of itself, for his current location is now as certain as the packed earth beneath his feet. The cold, the cave… The brilliance of the light filtering from the far-off mouth is damning too-- not just the brightness of day-sky, but the magnification of sunlight reflecting on snow. He had so hoped he was wrong, that fortune might favor him a little even in the face of all the evidence. The heaviness of disappointment is almost embarrassing. 

"The Forbidden Mountains," he says flatly, startled because he did not necessarily intend to speak. He supposes the odd muffling of mundane noise is perfectly sensible, now. If he had not been so

_(wrapped up in this heathen thing, a blood bond of all things! for years Erik twined himself in the oblivious, accepting waters of your under-mind-- but it's worse than that now, isn't it? his darkness blazes so enticingly, he is the only thing you can see)_

focused on the tumultuous events and revelations within the tent, he might have noticed earlier-- there is a ward humming, faintly, against the outermost reaches of his magickal awareness. The camp must be large indeed and the protections themselves oddly subtle, for they are not as easy to divine as others Charles has encountered. As with Erik himself, once the prince realigns his mind's eye to encompass the dizzying layers of perspective and mirrored, contradictory dimension, it becomes difficult to believe he missed the obvious picture to begin with. Perhaps that is it, the influence of the Dark Lord's _manna_ in wards that he would have led his mages in casting. All things authored by Erik's hand are not more difficult to see, by virtue of being as intimate and unconscious as the tide of blood in Charles veins. Even the blasphemous mage could not have authored all the ward himself, but even this brief exposure to Lehnsherr's personnel shows he would have no lack of sorcerous talent at hand.

"Just so," Erik nods. It's a paradoxically comforting confirmation, mostly because Charles would not put it past the Dark Lord to camp in Leng proper itself. This boldness aside, at least his army seems cognizant of their trespass. Their quieter operations are less likely to attract the attention of anything that might linger in the unlighted reaches here, of which ghosts would likely be the least worrisome. The enchantments, which seem to quiver away even as Xavier's psyche surreptitiously attempts to trace them, do not quite mask the sense of _heaviness_ the cave itself engenders. There is a psychic 'wetness' to the atmosphere, as of something sodden pressing inexorably downwards, that inspires instinctual caution as well.

"You're a brilliant strategist, Charles," Mystique murmurs, apparently in a generous mood towards all. "You warned Marko's Council of an attack from behind moons ago, to say nothing of the uncharted catacombs."

"Would that I had never conceived of it," he returns quietly. There is no accusation in the words, if only because they are already too crowded with regret. He casts his gaze to Erik, narrowing it to avoid any appearance of pleading. "Who can say if the notion did not leak from my mind to yours?" Shuddering to have said it aloud, Xavier tells himself he may yet have cause to doubt such a concept-- if Erik could read from him consciously, what need would there have been for a spy? Perhaps in time such evidence will dilute the guilt, though there will be no consolation.  
And certainly never any absolution.

 

The Dark Lord seems poised to speak on the matter when the entire trio is suddenly accosted by a brief gust of wind. Or rather, the unnatural displacement of air. A young woman has materialized at Ra-- _Mystique_ 's-- side, wisps of shadow disbursing around her form. At the sight of Erik, she bows deeply, casting a nervous but rather awed glance at Charles. 

"My Lord?" she asks, lashes lowered. Her eyes are dark, each with their own oval of flashing brilliance, like the tiger's eye stones of the south. Their gaze alights quickly and away, making a composite of glimpses rather than indulging in an open stare. Her awe does not outweigh her curiosity. Now that the wake of her shifting has cleared, the prince can see that she wears armor of patched leather and dragon-hide much like Mystqiue's, complete with vibranium chest-plate. The symbols etched on hers are more angular, the simple runes of a novice spell-caster. The hilt of a wicked _kris_ glints bloody from where its belted to her side and her broadsword, strapped to her back, is nearly as long as her torso itself. 

"My consort requires your services, Kitty," Lehnsherr says, once more immensely pleased by possessive pronouns. "You must show him to the Healer's tent-- he wishes assure himself of his students' safety amidst… barbarian hospitality." The tone is more indulgent than mocking, but not without an edge of suspicion. If he wishes to make light of Charles' worries, let him. Certainly, the prince himself is far too diplomatic to phrase them quite that indelicately. He takes more issue with the other implication; the way the Dark Lord speaks of him as though Erik himself is a mother particularly-- and needlessly-- protective of her single chick. It's a parallel many a contemptuous courtier drew when they were children, and doubly absurd given their present situation.

"A legitimate concern," Xavier says, adopting the breezy tone of a summer garden party. "Given that we have, as yet, no official treaty."

"No treaty?" Erik asks, perhaps a bit of genuine surprise leaking through his commander's mask. "What, then, are our oaths?"

 

Charles bites his lip for a moment, disliking how complicit that sounds… how intimate. For a moment, all he can think of-- all he can feel-- is the embrace he and Erik shared on the divan, in the dream of a future whose true possibility died long ago. Such a cruel tapestry his old friend had woven for him, a mirror world in which they had grown together like twining branches rather than diverging at rapids too swift and distant to ever meet again. Gently, all violent ardor held willfully at bay, Erik had cradled Charles in a way that seemed like a natural echo of their affection, extracting promises the prince was not truly cognizant enough to make. 

"I speak of statecraft," he returns, choosing not to address more… personal aspects of conquest, or lack thereof. "Your victory is indisputable, but you have taken more than another strategically valuable outpost." Not without a hint of pride, he finishes, "Acidalium is the final seat of the kingdom."

"Well I know it," Lehnsherr says, and Charles sees yet another constant echoing down through the years. How irksome Erik often found it when-- rightly or no-- the prince's education was implied as a vast advantage. There's a familiar sharpness to that smile, like the smell of bitter herbs. "Such negotiations are difficult to arrange when the titular head, that which would have called itself a king, has eschewed mortal justice out of cowardice."

 

_'All spectral powers,_ ' Xavier thinks before he can stop himself, _'Is he dead? Do monsters of childhood hallways and adult pressures die so easily?'_ Kurt Marko has been, despite his oafishness, a colossal figure almost from the very inception of Charles' memories. Certainly, he is more vivid and possessed of impact than the ever-fading, watercolor images of the prince's true father. A lost creature, the dethroned king, whose face and name were erased from monuments as even the ever-meticulous Elves bowed to the hubris of his usurper and mentioned their former ruler only glancingly in chronicles. Charles has never seen a painting or bust of his father, cannot even lay claim to shades of eye or hair. The only description or comparison the Lady Sharon ever made was the general distracted intelligence of her first husband and only son, a sort of fastidious contempt for the abstract nature of their studies. Couched within this courtly hauteur was something far more dire, a cutting glance from faey-brown eyes; _'And look what happened to _him_.'_

Charles' earliest memory of Marko, on the other hand, is a full sensory image-- exactly the lasting impression the new king intended to make. The traitor's ring, a heavy black opal, swooping down with a vulture's alacrity to collide with his own toddler's cheek. Such stones are considered unlucky, but Kurt wore his to defy the fates and-- as a happy coincidence-- inflict rather damaging blows. It had left a bruise on the young prince's cheek not unlike itself, mottled black purple-blue with a citrine aspect. Fickle stone and fading bruise contained yet one more association still, lasting far longer than the wound or even the ring. That same heavy be-jeweled hand had torn at his mother's bodice, revealing a pale breast from which the prince had never once suckled; it had rucked up Sharon's skirts while Marko showed the 'faey doxy' exactly what his lenience cost her. She had endured it silently, seemingly unmoved, but the frightful scene required no screams for punctuation. Terrified by the sight of his remote and statuesque mother in such disarray, Charles had wobbled forward on both unsteady legs and wings, with no plan in mind but to reach her. 

He'd been felled moments later, ears ringing as Kurt laughed and 'got on' with things, and later he had not even been required to parrot excuses for it. Rather, his new stepfather took public credit, declaring to one and all that the 'mouthy little whoreson' had been dealt with mercifully, and would henceforth know his place. 

These phantom-sharp thoughts coalesce only in a small, dry noise that barely escapes Charles' mouth-- the sound of a branch snapping. He almost forces himself to voice the question, 'Kurt Marko is dead?', but there's really no need. The look on his bond mate's face is firmer than spoken word, as is the obvious degree to which Erik is berating himself for having delivered the news so bluntly. There isn't a flinch in that commanding marble visage, but Charles can see it anyway. The jaw clenches, for Lehnsherr would always have anger rather than sorrow, but his eyes hold the well-worn question, _'why did you never _tell_ me?'_ Which, the prince is relieved to note, the Dark Lord does not actually give voice to in their current mixed company. 

 

Resolutely, Xavier turns his gaze on Mystique. "How did it happen?" And silently to his mate, hoping to be heard and half-fearing the same thing, _'I am not weak. Do not dishonor me with such cautious handling.'_

"Nothing 'happened'," the Dark Lord interjects quickly, "save the final act in the life of one who knew himself to be a parasite." The remote pronouncement is well at odds with the emotions behind it, and Charles knows his very specific message has been received. The bond is a meeting place of sea and sky, elements far more changeable than firmament, and more given to bleed into one another. The confusion assaulting the scholar lies not in visualizing this magick, but in determining his role. Is he the calm sea, opaque liquid chalcedony against the raging violet fire of Erik's thunder heads; or is he the placid veil of moonstone clouds over a choppy black ocean whose shards of ice bob dangerously no matter how much the waves themselves warm? The competing concepts grate against one another in his mind, making the cave-dirt tilt and Charles long to reach out and steady himself against something. Or someone.

"Something a little more substantive, if you please?" the scholar requests dryly. 

"He cut his own throat," Mystique provides, proving far more useful. "Our Janissaries had blocked him in the Inner Keep, and their orders _were_ to take him alive. The swords and bows of his own guard were long gone, and many fled themselves rather than fall to give Marko his time. Yet he made it into his treasure house, amongst all he'd acquired without labor, and spilled his blood in lieu of sweat." Her smile, an indigo flower with its white, white teeth, isn't just sharp-- it is rich with the satisfaction of someone who had known Kurt personally. A witness not merely to the posturing tyrant, but to a familiar and indiscriminate tormentor.

"Perhaps he meant to curse the gold," Kitty adds, with the brash timidity of those youths incapable of stilling their tongues. "But our Lord's power is unimpeachable, and we need fear nothing." A moment later, her face colors oddly, flushing with the realization of her enthusiasm and actual speech.

 

Lehnsherr glances at her briefly, before giving an oddly lenient nod. But the weight of his focus is on Charles, curling about the prince more securely than any winter mantle. The others step back just slightly, almost unconsciously, as if the Dark Lord's intensity requires safe distance for all but its object. Erik moves closer, taking Charles' elbows gently in each hand. At the same time, he turns both their forms just slightly-- a trick of angles Xavier would credit more to a politician or courtesan than someone as forthright as the Dark Lord. Neither one of them is completely obscured from their audience (which, given the curiosity inherent in all beings, must subtly include all in the vicinity), but it provides the closest thing to privacy in such an open space. The scholar notes the move faintly, as though marking some obscure horticultural detail in his mind for later research. All feels distant, unreal.

"He shan't hurt you again," his old friend murmurs, voice penetrating the numbed haze of Charles' dismay. A low, honeyed hum in the prince's ear, followed by the gentlest of brushings against his brow. A war-roughened knuckle traces the almost imperceptible white fissure-line of a scar further obscured by Charles' hairline. Impossible to find, perhaps even for a healer, unless one knew where to look. But well should the dark mage know, for he dabbed at it with Edie's special tincture himself, sitting beside Charles on the bed and insistently plying him with soup directly after. Not a smith's apprentice yet, too young even to mount a horse, Erik had never the less been coiled in anger that seemed to render him the size of a demon-prince, a giant bat-winged warrior of Dis. But then, he was always rather grim, that Lehnsherr boy; focused, possessed of a great many teeth. Whenever their little circle of children-- Erik, Charles, Raven, and sometimes Bobby or Gabrielle-- played tag-and-dragons, Erik was always the fire-breathing beast.

 

_("You didn't wake up for _days_," he says repeatedly, pressing a cool cloth to the knot forming on his young friend's head. The light in the room, which belongs to Erik, is dim and the sand-shutters closed against the brilliant Chrysian day. Charles can't make out the older boy's expression, and the blur of his own pounding head makes the whole world itself seem to ripple. Erik found him in his room after the King himself stalked out, small form bleeding where he'd fallen against the (thankfully unlit) hearth grating. Beyond the sight of angled wainscoting rushing relentlessly towards him, all memory of the actual incident has fled the prince, but the stark fear in those green eyes as he roused again is still vivid. "There was so much blood…"_

_"Head wounds bleed a great deal, my loves," Edie murmurs quietly, kissing them both as she passes. Then, to her patient, "You're young yet, my prince-- you'll heal with nary a mark to show for it, like as not." But her frown, and the ferocious foreign syllables she mutters whilst mixing ointments, belay the soothing words._

_The young prince, blearily drifting in and out of those sleepy fog-banks which are also home to strange perceptions and a constant thrum of pain, utters a denial as pitiful as it was intended to be forceful. "Please, you cannot…"_

_"I seek only to treat your wounds, Charles," Erik's mother assures him, dark eyes further clouded by helplessness. Indeed, what can she do? She understands the boy's plea even if her son does not. It is a man's right to correct-- however harshly-- within his own household. To say nothing of Marko's unassailable license as king. The tiny prince cannot bear to lose this, his brother and the woman he wishes had borne him, as would be the only result of even the faintest attempt at reproach. "We all do what we can," Edie says, directing a mutinously silent Erik towards herbs which need grinding._

_Her hand squeezes Charles', oddly strong for its long and delicate fingers, and her eyes show no surprise when her patient whispers back, "And _only_ what we can."_

_Erik comes to sit on the end of the bed with mortar and pestle in his lap, zealously pounding roots and leaves, and repeats, "_Days_, Charles. You barely moved.")_

 

It feels to Xavier as though a fine sheen of frost has overtaken his form, banished only in those brief places where Erik's skin comes into contact with his own. If not for the magnitude of his own disbelief, he might take to quivering free from his own bones. Lurking below this, below the compassion he feels (at times unwillingly) for even the most irksome stranger, there lurks a sense of guilt and damnation which will rise to engulf him soon enough. The oaf, the monstrous meaty tiger of casual slaps and unpredictable rages-- dead by his own hand! Was Marko _that_ much of a coward, as Mystique said?

_'You are quick to speak ill of the dead, are you not?'_ the damning portion of his mind murmurs, clad in Cain's voice. At least it isn't mimicking Marko… not yet. _'My father swore he nursed a viper at his breast, that you longed all your simpering, scholarly life to take his throne by subterfuge, as you could not in a true fight betwixt males!'_

As if to reinforce this notion, Lehnsherr continues silkily, "So, you see, you are now well-placed to represent your ungrateful people. The crown is, at last, returned to the Xavier heir." Then, so that their companions may also hear, "If it is a death-geis Marko sought, I can easily fulfill his wish. The gold is not his to curse, but I would be delighted to summon his soul back to rotting corpse, and set it to wandering in these snowy wastes."

Mystique and the space-shifter exchange glances far too nervous for the obvious hyperbole of their leader's threats, and Charles yearns to upbraid Erik for mentioning such black arts. Indeed, his tongue is writing in his mouth, seeking something to sink its sharpest edge into, but his lips are too numbed to part for the venom. Chastising his captor-- for that it what Erik is, and _all_ he is-- over trivialities accomplishes nothing, and how could he even begin to approach the issue truly at hand? Should he say that he doesn't want this, any of this? He is no ruler, even if Lehnsherr seeks only a symbol to engrave the final formalities of surrender, or a pretty title for the bondmate he has obtained through trickery. Charles is a teacher, often one for planning infrastructure or advocating for justice, but he prefers the masses he serves stay safely outside his tower. At the end of the day, it is only amongst his books and herbs and carefully chosen companions that his efforts might be recognized as accomplishments, rather than pathetic attempts to curry favor or presumptuously condescend. 

None of this can be articulated, especially in mixed company, so it's just as well Mystique adds, "Trask is dead, as well." Said from deep in the throat, husky with bloodlust? 

"Indeed," the Dark Lord agrees, though he shoots another pointed glance at his second. Xavier's ice-numbed disbelief is gives way to sudden terror, and an instinctive concern for certain of his students that could prove more deadly still. He cannot master himself completely, instead abandoning the threads of thought and focusing, despite the unpleasantness, on his own guilt. Erik's hand creeps to the small of Charles' back, but the support is somewhat absent-minded-- may all gods and uncharted heavens be praised. Lehnsherr's shoulders are set taught beneath their dragon-hide lames, betraying his irritation. Xavier has the sudden, incongruous image of Erik reacting as he once did when Raven failed to follow his lead in some child's game or another, though of course there are now no golden braids for him to tug on in reproach. Edie or Charles-- often both-- would fuss at him then, warning that it was not always his place to say just how things would be.  
Now, the prince thinks with no small bitterness, Lehnsherr has achieved that status in full.

 

After a beat of silence, Charles realizes Mystique's continued gaze is an expectant one. She is offering him this, holding Trask's death out like a gift because--

_(She **knows**. She knows who came in the oily torchlight, clad in black like a foreshortened shadow when the hours were small and the pain so great. Somehow, in her quicksilver deceptions, she has discovered how the shadow-thing said, "You must let us help you, my prince". It held forth water which tasted just slightly astringent, but Charles was thirsty and tired and, when the stone floor and the pallet upon it began to tilt, it was too late to fight off the seeming multitude of curious, merciless hands--)_

'No, she cannot know,' his reason argues, crowding out once more those thoughts for his students, which at all costs _must_ remain unread. The babble of panicked memory is nauseating, but useful enough as a shield. Mystique said she slipped away from Acidalium before any of that happened, taking her hoard of knowledge back to the Dark Lord just after Eostre Eve. She and Erik can only suspect which sadistic artist took their lancet to Charles' wings and back-- though certainly Lehnsherr will not require solid proof to act. But now the prince, fool that he is, has confirmed it via a lapse in his own mask-- mental and physical.  
_(Better that than… hush!)_

 

Erik is gritting his teeth, pulling Xavier in as if to embrace him without care of who sees. Charles goes with the motion partially, but swiftly grabs the Dark Lord's shirt-collar, elbow planted in the warrior's breastplate to lever them apart.

"How far have you spread the tale of my misery?" he hisses quietly, uncaring that he sounds more vicious than any moon-mad lycanthrope. 

Those eyes are the color of any deadly squall, filling with both anger and defensiveness, but the icy reproach masks a melting compassion, which is far worse. Charles bats away the callused comforting hand before Lehnsherr can decide where to put it, simultaneously wondering if he has gone too far with his trite defiance. Kitty's wide eyes and the increasing silence in the general vicinity certainly suggest as much.

"Dear one," his old friend murmurs, matching the secretive tone of the question. The warrior's smile is at once tender and faintly predatory as an arm successfully finds its way about the younger being's waist. "None know, save Mystique, and she only because I sought to ease my guilt--"

"Guilt?" Xavier asks, narrowly avoiding hysteria and the volume it would bring. "Surely such things cannot take root in the heart of the Dark Lord, much less thrive there."

"For you, Charles," Erik says reverently, as if mistaken self-flagellation is some sort of victory. Any chain of supposed logic that makes Lehnsherr responsible for a freak accident for which he was not even present is not exactly one Charles is in any hurry to untangle. The awe of the Free People and his impact on thousands of destinies have gone to the dark mage's head.

 

Charles almost says as much but he is well aware of the deeply curious gazes fixed on them by both Mystique and Kitty, not to mention the less-than-subtle tent-dwellers and those in the camp studiously avoiding staring at the tableau.

"Perhaps," the Dark Lord grits in a furious aside to the rustling canvas, "the problem of eavesdropping might be remedied by--" and his voice becomes a bellowing growl, while his face is turned carefully away from Charles, "-- removal of the offending organs!" The jolt that runs through all in their near-by audience, as well as the quick dispersal of persons and lavishly resumed bustle of work does little to mollify the prince, though it might be amusing under other circumstances. And with another principal player. 

"You will tell no one else of this," Charles whispers, partially sinking his teeth into the demand. Lehnsherr, blast the man, lays his hand over the prince's, which still clutches a fist-full of shirt collar. Gently, he pries those fingers loose, looking for all the world as though his new bondmate is exhibiting sadness, rather than rage. As if Charles would ever, ever shed tears

_(those few he's shed in the past six moons have not been seen. even as he was pared apart, almost gutted from behind, he screamed but did not weep. he will never nourish others, be they onlookers or enemies, with such a sight.)_

for Erik to dry. Suddenly, the scholar feels a longing for the Dark Lord's answering rage or loss of patience-- a longing which is more powerful than thirst.

"I will not be paraded about," he continues, "as some unfortunate example of Elvish depravity. Another pillar to justify your crusade." A deep, ragged breath, "I say for the last time: the cause of my accident was as much a freak--" and he has learned well to keep his tongue from tripping over that word, "-- as I am now." Xavier feels his own flare of self-destructive triumph when Erik's grip tightens in tandem with the clenching of that strong jaw, but his bondmate is quick to rob him even of that.

 

Instead, after a pause just long enough to betray consideration, Erik gives a wry chuckle. A bitter thing, this sound-- not booming, though it does involve the toss of the head so typical in a soldier's merriment. "You are not freak," he states, irrefutable despite the dark humor. "Look around you, my prince. If mixed heritage and great misfortune are your criteria, then we are all freaks here." He gestures to the camp at large, but the sweep of his hand ends with their primary audience of two. On cue, the Dark Lord's second closes her eyes and allows brief feathering ripple of scales to reveal a large scar upon her cheek. It looks almost like an acid burn, a smooth topography of fissures arching upwards and stopping thankfully short of Mystique's left eye. Kitty, too, tilts her face up. With better light and a focused gaze, Charles can see deep pock-marks scattered about her pale cheeks and nose, as if someone poked hot needles there. And, of course, the pendant Erik so treasures is displayed proudly against the prongs of the 'Y' shaped scar-stitching on his sternum. 

Almost mournful, as if bracing up under some heavy task, the Dark Lord adds, "You really don't know, do you?"

_(The ring, ardently embracing Charles' finger, where it rests with such blissful warmth even at this moment. Third finger, left hand; silver metal resting against a vein which will draw blood right back to the prince's heart.  
Erik on his knees in the snowy courtyard. 'I should not have let them know I wanted you at all. Charles, Charles… There's more going on here than you know.')_

 

Shuddering, the scholar retorts quickly, "I'm not sure I could survive much more enlightenment today." It's true, but a truth too thin to the hide horrified and contradictory desire to _know_. To look into the face of the Gorgon without aid of intermediary mirror. What need has he of a looking glass when he can see himself twinned so perfectly the dark moons of Erik's gaze. Even without the aid of the bond, his old friend must know the seeds of unease have been successfully sown.

"Your well-being is ever my concern," Lehnsherr says in seeming concession, and with far more gravitas than necessary. "And time to consider recent revelations would not go amiss, I think."

Charles opens his mouth to say that centuries of meditation will not persuade him to Lehnsherr's interpretation of events, but he forces himself to silence. He and Erik could stand here arguing in whispers before an increasingly curious crowd until the light from the cave mouth vanishes. There's precedent enough for that. Even as children, they could wrangle over which section of the marsh to explore or what diversion to seek until they lost half the daylight and Edie told them both to take their bickering out in the garden, hands thrown up in bafflement. 

 

As he struggles with this self-censorship, Xavier registers some barely perceptible movement from the corner of his eye. In another moment the pungency of sulfur begins assaulting his nose and a faint cloud becomes visible, like the wake before before a ship-- reality parting for yet another creature's arrival. 

"Your commanders have assembled, my Lord," a sonorous, accented voice intones. Once Charles' eyes adjust to the sheer vividness of the vermillion skin, he recognizes the being as his first foe in this sorry mess. The red demon, the space-shifter Erik sent as both distraction and scout. Up close, the warrior's face shows an incongruous patrician cast, all the more jarring for his uncanny likeness to the silly human notion of 'the Devil'. His tail twitches like a bored serpent, and Mystique bats at it with a gauntleted hand when it swings her way.

Yet she is smiling when she says, "You are very dramatic in your comings and goings." 

The demon's grin is equally wicked, but he is careful to bow fully to both Erik and-- wonder of wonders-- Charles before he responds. Light, teasing, "Would my Lady not have me so?"

"I'm shocked your Lady has you at all," Lehnsherr says, giving his bondmate a look that invites the scholar to commiserate with his burden. Xavier himself is too surprised at this byplay, too scandalized by the mild but uncourtly liberties the demon's tail is taking in twining about Mystique's armored waist, to notice. He even fails to register the fact Erik still has hold of his hand.

"Charles," the Dark Lord says, sounding the model if propriety. "This is Azazel, whom you encountered--"

"I remember," the prince returns flatly. The space-shifter-- Azazel-- raises a sculpted eyebrow the likes of which Emma might envy, but nods amiably towards his commander while Erik introduces Charles with his new lengthy and unbelievable title. Inwardly, the scholar frowns, unable as yet to translate the curious mix of deference, camaraderie, and occasional awe with which the Free People seem to regard the Dark Lord. 

"An honor." It's said with sincerity as Azazel places a fist over his own armored heart. 

"Thank you," Xavier says reflexively, not minding in the slightest when the space-shifter's other eyebrow lifts in an expression of mild surprise. Lady Mother's advice proving useful once more; 'So many mistake grace and courtesy for passivity. The more carefully you cultivate these traits, the more blinded they will be by your viper's strike.' A creature of proverbs, of cool caprice, Lady Sharon of the Rosewood. If she had love in her, it had all been spent on the husband she chose over her people. Or perhaps she had loved Charles in her way, and had therefore armed her son with advice and exhortations when there was little affection to be spared.

 

"What is it you contemplate so fiercely?" Erik asks, leaning close and intimate once more. "I can almost…" Perhaps he too is bemused by the polite response, or perhaps it is only the look of abstraction-- that distant diplomatic mien he so dislikes seeing on his bond mate's face. His eyes narrow, and Charles feels a flutter of inquisitive avarice beyond the halo of his conscious thoughts-- that space where firelight gives way at last to the dim and dancing shadows. The prince bats him away, both physically and mentally, alarmed at the thought of intimate exposure before such a wide audience. 

"Will you not see to your generals, then?" the scholar asks, loud enough for the others to hear. Part of this is defiance as well as defense, for he has spent several long moments with his hand lying distractedly quiescent in Lehnsherr's grip. Now the Dark Lord seems determined to keep possession of it. 

"We both have our obligations," Erik acknowledges, examining the pale fingers he has trapped and cradled between both palms. The left set, of course. The sapphire's inborn star flashes in the flickering torchlight, set off against Lehnsherr's intricate working of the silver. Though he's not fool enough to kiss it, Charles' old friend does marvel over the flesh it adorns, as though that hand is some blushing creature collared for his pleasure. "I will see you very soon," the Dark Lord murmurs, releasing Xavier's hand at last. He punctuates this by dropping a chaste kiss on the prince's forehead. 

When Erik steps back, Azazel puts a deferential hand at the warlord's elbow, shifting them both-- as well as Mystique-- away through invisible layers of space with only a puff of sulfur to mark their passage.

 

Charles is left staring at their abandoned footprints, pulse pounding. The impression of those strange-yet-familiar lips lingers, all the more disturbing for being exactly like those Erik bestowed when they were children. At parting or at nightfall, the older boy would take hold of him and press that brief physical connection, grip at once embarrassed and insistent. The same, or very nearly the same, even then. 

 

The kiss-- evidence of zealous devotion too old to bear contemplation-- now feels hot and heavy on Charles' skin.  
Like a brand. 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith's Ridiculous Glossary/World-Building Notes:  
> [+] **Alhazred** \- Abdul Alhazred, from H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu mythos cycle. He is the author of the Necronomicon, a rare and forbidden text which details secrets of the Elder gods and hints at the location of Kadaath.  
> [+] Faey cameos, in order of appearance: Sean (mottled wings), Natasha Romanov (red and black wings), and Sam Wilson (fay with basilisk's tail).  
> [+] _arassas_ from French folklore. A creature of the Alps, with the body of a lizard and the head of a cat.  
>  [+] _manticore _\- a mythical beast favored in many medieval texts, possessing a red-furred lion's body with the head of a man, three rows of sharp teeth, and a scorpion's tail.__  
>  [+] _kris_ an Indonesian sword with a wave-like asymmetrical blade (almost like a curvy lightning bolt) and a thick, short hilt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the end notes for this chapter got WAY out of hand (we're talking Gamera-bashing-through-the-city level-- I apologize in advance), I'm gonna keep this short. Thank you so much for reading my story! If I could trouble you just a bit more to comment or leave kudos, I'd be a happy-little fic-writer indeed.
> 
> That said, enjoy this chapter: in which Charles _finally_ gets to check on his students, more of the Dark Lord's army is seen, and really bad life choices are made (Though not by our boys. _For once_.).

"To the Healer's tent, then?" Charles asks, feeling _something_ must be said. The girl's odd mixture of stalwart responsibility and timorousness could well become stifling, especially given the echoes the prince sees even in the briefest survey of those heartily pretending routine around them. When Kitty reaches to place a respectful hand on his shoulder in roughly the same manner Azazel displayed, Xavier adds, "I should very much like to take a turn about the encampment."

He does not allow himself to clear his throat, which is developing the unfortunate habit of turning into a vast desert whenever Erik takes up his sentimental lunacies. Instead, he smiles politely, forcing his tone to pleasant clarity and framing the necessity as a request. His students must be seen to, but he will not sacrifice a chance to observe for the short-term reward of soothing his own conscience as speedily as possible. He'll play into Lehnsherr's delusion that he is some sort of guest-- 'shall we see your gardens?', 'Oh, I have heard of your cunning wards, do show me!'-- and perhaps find some key in the minutiae. The sash folded over his arm feels heavy, but a great deal of that weight is mental, since it is loaded only with the small transfigured rubies the dark mage so thoughtlessly left littering the tent floor. It's clear by now that they will hold their shape, and Charles has little else to bargain with. If the initial steps of the plan he hatched with Hank were at least marginally successful, then the other scholar should have some coin as well. Even the calamities they foresaw, miserably unimaginative though they were, required finance. It would not be possible, then or now, to reach the border of the Iron Woods without bribes.

"As the Consort-Regnant wishes," Kitty replies, that distressing brightness of youth at least tolerably diluted by a brief look of doubt. She bows, ushering him along with every appearance of genuine conscientiousness, weaving sedately through aisles of dizzyingly similar tents. 

 

Of weather-worn canvas patched with bits of hide, the shelters are really no more remarkable than those used by the Elves. As with many an army, those soldiers with protective clan symbols or basic knowledge of runes have stained such shapes on the rough fabric, using everything from charcoal and berry juice to darker tones suggesting animal blood. That last, at least, is a significant departure-- one would no more find blood-magic practiced amidst Elves than one would find a dower human priest ministering at a faey bacchanal. 

_("This is yours, if you want it." Erik, vows spoken, calmly holding out his own bleeding hand. Three bindings in blood-- fair recompense for Lehnsherr's trickery, but a step towards darker magicks all the same. In Charles' memory, the blood seems very vibrant, laced with phantom glow of gold from within. "Take it. You'll feel better if you do.")_

Shivering a little, Charles keeps pace with his guide, his burden safely cradled in the crook of his elbow. Trying to make note of the camp's layout is further complicated by the frequent repetition of symbols. An unfamiliar one, which looks like a low-tongue 'M' pierced through with either a jagged sword or lightning bolt, appears to be the most popular. It's difficult to gage the distance to the mouth of the cave past the jutting canvas, particularly since the light beyond seems to be dimming. Moreover, he is still being watched and is at certain moments hard pressed not to gape himself.

 

That such strange, war-like beings should study him with such respectful interest is surreal. Charles has been the focus of many crowd-gazes (not to mention the whispers behind hands that accompany such) since before he could toddle, but this… If these beings are his enemies, resentful of expenditure in life and effort to attain a mangled

_(Old murmurs, the suppression of laughter; "Fairy _whore_.")_

toy for their master, then they are more skilled than Elvish nobility at hiding their rancor. All of these beings-- red, green, violet, and gold-eyed alike-- have clear, frank gazes. No judgement, but also no pity. Almost every single one of them bows their head in deferential acknowledgement as he passes, as travelers do when confronted with foreign idols they are at a loss to appease. By now, Kitty is doing a poor job of concealing her pride in being chosen for this task, though Charles still can't help but feel that none of them truly credit his reality. The amazing nature of these beings (with differences as obvious to the eye as Charles' once were, and so marvelously unashamed!) and their wonderful profusion makes it seem as though Erik summoned them from those long ago tales. Has made their children's narrative manifest in the ultimate conjuring trick. 

As he and Kitty cross yet another open fireside area between groups of tents, Xavier realizes his disorientation belays a far more immediate concern. The Free People's camp is, quietly frankly, _sprawling_ \-- he's seen everything from vats of milk and barley stored amidst the accommodations, to the responsible skittish goats in little pens, and even strips of smoked meat. This is no temporary fall-back position, where weary soldiers would be limited to what they could carry, pillage, or forage. Certainly it is utterly unlike the westward make-shift bivouac that could be seen-- via field-glass-- from Acidalium's highest ramparts. Military intelligence had trickled to a pitiful leak once enemy lines had drawn up nearly to their stronghold. Kurt's advisors could only assume the Dark Lord to be headquartered at conquered Phlegra, far behind the territory under current dispute. Yet here in the Forbidden Mountains is a thriving fortified position-- albeit a conspicuously quiet and precarious one. To what degree has Erik tempted the gods, making ingress to this place? And how long have his forces been lurking at Acidalium's back, knife poised at the throat of some sacrificial victim?

 

"My Lady Knight--" Charles begins, his sudden decision to speak apparently startling his companion. "A question, if you would permit me."

"I'm but a squire," the space-shifter says humbly, "I have too few kills to my name for a title. I am called merely Kitty-- or Shadow Cat, if you like." And, with the same unaffected factuality, "The Consort-Regnant is to have anything he likes."

'Ah,' thinks Charles, with a mixture of cynicism, pity, and envy for the days he had such capacity for belief. 'We shall see soon enough, I'd imagine, just how variable the definition of 'anything' can be.' His freedom, of course, is out of the question. By both might and magick, the Dark Lord has him pinned. The weight of this ridiculous title seems a thorn in the prince's paw, reminding him of his true helplessness. He has half a mind to invite Kitty to take the same liberties as his students ('professor' is far less loaded a term), but does not want to stray from the main point.

"Thank you," he says instead. He casts his gaze about, wondering if they're anywhere near their destination. Coiled within, the 'muscle' of his magickal sense twitches briefly. It is tempting to reach, to see if he can feel the edges where familiar _manna_ wends into the collective whole. A spellwork of this size and magnitude would require an entire coven-- which it has long been rumored Shaw kept and, according to some, deliberately _bred_ \-- but Erik's power would have been a necessity for the central nexus. What, amongst the numerous blasphemies and unnatural incursions of Leng, could they possibly have pinned down enough to specifically shield against? 

 

"The encampment is large and well-warded. Would this then be the seat of your master's martial forces?"

"Aye," she answers, easily enough. "This has been Lord Magneto's strategic axis for several moons." Then, gently correcting, "But none amongst the Free People is a slave."

For a moment, Charles is brought up short. Then, the duality of his guide's reference and the logic of Erik's position as leader align in a quick and obvious connection. Lehnsherr would not be addressed as a faceless monster-- the 'Dark Lord'-- amongst his own people. 'Magneto,' Xavier thinks, smiling ruefully. Of course the name of that mythical sword would appeal to Erik. The penetrating pivot, a weapon forged of pure sun-metal and run like a pillar through all the many concentric spheres of existence. The story being, of course, that a Chosen might someday pull the mystical lance free and start creation afresh. Or simply plunge it back into the Nothingness from whence it came. Unconcerned with Kitty's nervous questioning look, Charles shakes his head; Erik's hubris continues to astound. 

"Then Lord Magneto is merely your king?" the scholar asks, trying to weigh the seeds of Lehnsherr's pride-- so easy to see even in their childhood-- against the far more alien hunger for power that drives most who come to rule. Arrogance and ambition; two snakes, not the same but so often intertwined as to be mistaken for one beast. He very much pretends there isn't a prick of relief behind his heart, comfort in the notion that _no_ version of Erik would ever take slaves.

"The Free People have no king, as yet."

"Then what--" Xavier fumbles, uncertain exactly as to how the question should be phrased. Erik slew Shaw; usurpation is, in most martial societies, a greater source of legitimacy than inheritance.

It turns out he needn't search for diplomatic wording, for Kitty is quick to expound with blushing fervor and an unnervingly catechistic flair: "He is our god-general. The _other_ \--" and here she spits, apparently as close as she'll get to saying Shaw's name. Mercifully, she waits until they pass another fire pit before doing so. "-- intended Lord Magneto as sacrifice. He meant to draw one of the Great Old Ones into a shell of mortal clay." 

 

_'He sought to create a god-body,'_ Erik had said in the catacombs. The notion is intellectually blasphemous and emotionally devastating-- something he hardly had time to really consider during his 

_(failed, you **failed** , and will you bear guilt for not stopping him then? oh little halfling, miserable scholar, there is always plenty of blame to go around.)_

attempt to free himself from the interloper's clutches. Now the calm factuality of a child-soldier brings home what Lehnsherr's impassioned attempts to explain himself had not. For a moment, the past exists simultaneously with the present, as if both timeframes have been shot through with a connecting spear. Through this lance-hole, Charles can almost see his child-self kneeling, wings damp with nightmare sweat, murmuring incoherent prayers in fear for his friend. From the Chryse Planitia, to Imbrium Promontory in the midlands, and all during the long flight through southern Jord, he'd strained with his novice's tools of divination, woven blessings, and tried to gauge the tides between the spheres. Never had he known how paltry his terrible visions were compared, to the true danger his brother faced. This young reflection writhes within the grown scholar, unable to bear the thought of _his_ Erik being obliterated, emptied of soul for the occupation of those _things_ which come from the Outside. 

 

"--yet our Lord was clever," Kitty continues, moving with graceful obliviousness over this little skip Charles' personal experience of time. As a toddler may cheerfully wobble and right itself, accidentally avoiding a pit in the cobblestone. "Having learned at the feet of that foul mage and become secretly greater than he, Lord Magneto slew the being which called itself our master, and returned to us with proof of our new freedom." 

That internal creature, the lonesome stray caught between marble balustrades and freed by the stone mason's son, feels nothing but vindictive satisfaction and abject relief at the way this rather propagandistic tale ends. Xavier fights this devotion-- remnants of love fervent with the myopia of childhood-- down ruthlessly, and with gratifying success. The stir of concern at the other end of the bond remains only that, easily brushed away as the prince approaches the new intelligence pragmatically. 

 

The fact that Erik's 'soul'-- or rather, both portions of his soul-- is still intact is incontrovertible. Even the lowliest of magickal initiates would sense both the Dark Mage's _anima_ (the ego-soul and life-force) and _neshama_ as vital components of one entity-- a bit veiled, perhaps, but undamaged and whole. It is the _neshama_ , the undying consciousness, which the most grievous practitioners of the dark arts forfeit for their power. It is also the same essential core of being that now twines about Charles' own. Like the slow campaign of a vine as it joins its fortunes to that of a tree, it takes advantage of deep roots, whose strength has persisted despite more than a decade of separation. 

They are wed inextricably, prince-mage and sorcerous warlord, but there is an edge of blinding shadow to this union which Xavier is still at a loss to explain. That thin influence of acidic no-thingness that had hovered on the edges of Erik's aura, in him but not _of_ him. What Charles saw in their shared dream is only the scholar's own mind, warning him of what cannot be expressed in words. Erik, but virtue of constant exposure, is likely either unaware of it, unconcerned, or both.

Which leaves Charles alone with his uncomfortable suspicions, and utterly at a loss to begin drafting some viable escape. Resisting the urge mentally review the contents of Acidalium's Temple library at just this precise moment in time, the scholar still despairs of finding a resource even there. Beyond the basic tenant of its existence and a few lengthy monographs on the connection between _manna_ and this incorruptible inner being (to say nothing of those treatises on the prohibition of dark magick), Elvish tradition actually has very little to say about the soul. Assured of perpetuity, Elfkind has never perseverated over the nature of post-mortal consciousness as the Sons of Man do. Where it goes and what it does upon departing this sphere is considered question suited to the exploration itself, and Elves have lives long enough to tire of that living. Mixing, bonding, _touching_ the 'souls' of others is either distasteful, or downright obscene. To even meditate or cast charms for the safety of other's spirit is highly questionable… something Charles did only in secret, or in the presence of a mother who cared not at all for the magickal arts.  
Clearly, Xavier's prayers _were_ heard, and answered by the conniving left hand of Fate. His schooling, no matter how esoteric and profound, tells him only that the massive power he generates with his bondmate cannot possibly come without a price.

 

Pondering this metaphysical quagmire has brought Charles to a halt in the shadow of one of the many sigil-laden tents, but he is not unaware of his guide. Apparently interpreting his silence as failure to fully grasp the point, her tone takes on the complacency of one remarking only that the sun will rise again tomorrow, "Magneto-- whom you call 'The Dark Lord'-- is our _savior_."

Seeing nothing amiss in her little recital, Kitty raises a brow questioningly. After several loud beats of Charles' pulse in his own ears, he nods mechanically, and she motions with a hand careful to herd without touching. "This way." 

 

Years of experience in the Court allow him to follow the squire sedately, his gaze appearing interested but ultimately uninvested in his surroundings. His mind is busy, alive and crackling with associations like the hollow core of a reliquary in which some animating breath or powerful charm is concealed. The facts are not pleasant or encouraging, but they are _facts_, and thus something he can work with. Erik's confidence, his temerity, and his faith that reality will shape itself to some form he desires, have at last been revealed to be as well-founded as they are grandiose. Nothing the scholar has seen-- indeed, nothing he can ever be shown-- will justify what the Dark Lord has done or absolve him of delivering the killing blow to Evlish civilization (among other crimes too varied to enumerate at present). Never the less, the god-hood and unswerving obedience Shaw sought to attain literally have now been achieved in practicality by his usurper.  
Though not through fear.

Lehnsherr-- Magneto of the Free People-- knows everything the former slaves have suffered because he endured that hell beside them. Combining loyalty, camaraderie, gratitude, and the defeat of a seemingly deathless tyrant, clearly results in the calm, shining devotion in the shining tiger eyes of the fierce girl before him. Age is always difficult to estimate for those of mixed heritage, but Xavier thinks Kitty to be about sixteen or seventeen seasons. Old enough to remember the horror, and young enough to _believe_. No slave could ever be bound by ties as strong as that!

_'We lost because we did not understand the war itself,'_ he thinks dully. In his arms, the precarious makeshift pouch of rubies now feels like some foolish totem. Never mind-- it is a tool at hand, and he will make use of it. _'We thought we were fighting mistreated chattel or mercenaries, when all the time our foes were _disciples_.'_

 

"Here we are, then," Kitty says, gesturing towards a large tent of deep red canvas. Both the cloth and the dye are visibly far newer than the other portable dwellings. Xavier watches as a young male of wyvern descent pushes the flap aside, making a jaunty exit with one claw freshly bandaged. As the billowing folds settle, the scholar finds himself blinking owlishly at a common Elvish phrase-- stitched inexpertly and inly in low-tongue characters-- emblazoned over the entrance. _'Bring Us Your Wounded_. 

"I'll be close," his companion assures him unnecessarily. "Your party has been given provisions and settled within. I'm to give you privacy, but our Lord will wish to see you again soon."

'How very thoughtful', Charles narrowly refrains from saying. He forces a smile and a shallow bow of gratitude, wondering-- in a way that desires no real answer-- what in the world she thinks she sees when she looks at him.

* * * * * * 

Like the camp itself, there's a general sense of underlying familiarity within the Healer's Tent-- the universality of the concept exacerbated by its obvious Elvish template. The scents which crest upon the scholar in waves are powerfully mnemonic; arnica, aloe, boneset for fever, willow bark for those who must sleep through pain. All ingredients he himself as ministered and taught with, the details of certain more exotic mixtures having been learned at Edie's feet. The cots, makeshift and altered to suit the needs of varying physiologies, are arranged in two rows-- one against each wall, with an aisle in between. One of the wounded, a young female with the shimmering, damp skin of the dragon-kin salamander, is lounging in a tin vat which might once have been a trough. Placed near the stove at the other end of the tent, she is up to her neck in rejuvenating hot coals, ebony hair in wild waves around her exquisite face. Beside her, a massive silver rock ogre is chewing on stones filched from her 'bed'. In recompense, she flicks little sparks of fire at him with her scaly toes.

Xavier nods in purely automatic greeting to the red-robed Healer, a golden-haired man whose white faey wings are more feathery by virtue of some avian mixture-- or so the prince surmises from the fact he possesses claws rather than feet. He's ladling out a sleeping draught with the help of the red-headed faey boy Charles spotted earlier. Something mild, if the faint blue hue is anything to go by. Most of the patients accept gratefully, though a few wave it away, more interested in games of dice or cards.  
Or the stranger standing awkwardly at the tent's flap, dressed in a mixture of at-hand finery and Elvish Court dress that would mark him as foreign even if some of it weren't known to belong to the Dark Lord himself. They are surreptitious, these people, having known the taste of the lash for even the slightest perceived impertinence, but Xavier can feel the flick of their questioning gazes, and his ears heat powerfully under the sable cap.

 

At the far end of the canvas enclosure, separated by a number of empty beds and bare benches, Charles is at last able to set eyes on his students. They have him spotted first, if the cries of delight are anything to go by. It's a welcome the scholar finds both deeply humbling and remorsefully undeserved. Even Emma smiles at him faintly, though her look is wry and she seems to be standing sentinel between two clusters of charges. 

"Professor!" Jean almost whoops, barreling into him. Ororo, tugging determinedly at the hand of shy Bruce, isn't far behind, and Remy remains seated thanks only to Hank's fussing over putting weight on his apparently injured foot. Carefully keeping his expression gentle and reassuring, Charles hugs Jean back, all whilst shoring up his mental shields against both this little psychic firecracker and the far more intimate enemy laced within his own soul. A quick visual sweep proves all are present; somewhat battered, but with Remy's foot seeming to represent the worst of the damage. That his ankle is wrapped rather than held in a stiff splint is encouraging, indicating it is likely a sprain and not a break. Frost has a cut on her cheek which she wears with the imperiousness of purposeful rouge, while Hank and Betsy have numerous scrapes that look more defensive than anything else. They are lucky, though-- or perhaps Charles is, having been spared the burden of death as a price for his own failure. _Fall_ , as when they speak of some monk or temple maiden who has compromised their vows. As if life is nothing but matter of balance on a parapet, punishment lying in wait for the slightest error in judgement; one wrong move and a flailing plummet follows, alive but forever separated from one's fellows, into an abyss.

In this way, discouragement and textureless despair smother any relief the prince might feel. At least the guilt churning in his gut is profound enough it may pass as applying equally to all of his students. He can only hope it masks the deeper fear. He has been shielding this from Erik with constant mental sleights and truncations of thought since he woke: the gnawing, growing threat that some may be singled out for a fate more horrific still.

 

( _"Swear to me that my students will be safe-- from you, and all those who answer to you."  
"You waste your wishes, Little Maus." Not present communication from his bondmate, only the echoing memory of Erik's superior little quip. "I already conceded that."_ )

 

'No, I did not,' Charles affirms to himself, quiet as the creature for which Lehnsherr nicknamed him long ago. A third binding would be even better, for the humans are wrong-- it is so much more than a 'charm'. There's a brief twitch from Erik's side of the bond, the exasperated tail-flick of a feline whose mangled offering has caused distress, but he is only reacting to the magnitude of the prince's guilt. Nothing intrusive, or even particularly inquisitive. Something _else_ has absorbed the vast majority of the Dark Lord's attention-- what a wonder, to be even briefly eclipsed! Or could it be that he, too, has something he wishes to hide? Xavier will admit to some curiosity, but nothing that would provoke the folly of trying to discern the matter. 

Thus feeling more at liberty, Charles accepts additional embraces from Bruce and Ororo, smiling at Remy and then looking past the boy to fully register those who have chosen the furthest corner of the tent. Sitting on a low bench, beside an oddly expressionless Betsy, are the two students assigned to the scholar more recently than their comrades-- and with far more ominous motives. The children themselves are blameless, of course, found wanting by Master Teachers and sorcerers for the same initial reason as all the other's placed in Charles' care. Nature has endowed every one of his charges with great magickal gifts but, in every case, the circumstances of birth were… 'less than desirable'. 

Hardly an appropriate criteria for the Elves who claimed to adore logic, but Charles long ago discovered that word rarely has the same meaning for everyone who speaks it. Remy, for example, is the son of a cook. 'So rare that talent should be found in the lower castes!' one of the Academic Council declared. 'Most assuredly you, Professor, are equal to the task of teaching… _proper_ behavior along with magickal curriculum.' The same is true of Bruce, though his parentage is of the martial ranks, his family both perplexed and a bit repelled appearance of such intelligence and skill in their midst. Ororo's father had lived amongst western tribes of humans in the 'old days'-- the centuries-ago autumn of Jord's power-- and, while his wife was Elvish, many in the Council found her pedigree somewhat wanting. Well, then-- the gift is inborn and they must be trained, for to leave it unguided invites more chaos still. Let Xavier have them, then! 'Freaks suited to the freak,' he'd heard the acolytes whisper, their attempts to 'politely' disguise the mockery ruined by the well-known acoustics of the Temple hall. 

Long accustomed to these attitudes, to the constant reminder that his own teaching position was an example of the Council's 'tolerance', Charles had been neither hurt nor surprised. His heart swelled only with empathy ( _not_ pity, for there is nothing pitiable about any of his students) for the innocents entering the dragon's den. He strove not only educate them as thoroughly as possible, but to subtly prepare them for the ever-changing but always hostile world they would face. To arm them with quiet perseverance and self-worth without robbing them of hope that things could be _better_. Perhaps the Masters suspected as much-- that he was teaching confidence and respect along with runes, alchemy, and defensive spell work. Or possibly, like Marko, they had him spotted for a traitor long before he knew it himself. The bothersome half-blood teacher could not be trusted, must be carefully watched. It matters little now, save that the actions taken by a suspicious Council have inadvertently saved two lines Erik has vowed to extinguish. 

Holding Betsy's hand, the sickly Jason Stryker sits in the lap of his half-sister, Francesca, whose forfeited surname is Trask. 

 

Having been the same inconvenient son and disinherited liability, Charles knows their pain and has never begrudged them a place in his classroom. He loves them as he loves all his students, and to protect them is his sacred duty-- _before_ any bonds of intimacy, his honor, and even his own life. But the two siblings look at him now as dogs regard a good master who has suddenly struck them without warning or reason. Jason's face is puffy from very recently departed tears, and he leans towards the tent wall as if he must keep absolute distance from Charles even though the scholar is more than a dozen paces away. Like Emma, Francesca has little natural sweetness (though whose to say such is the boon its purported to be?), and none of it is on display right now. The majority of the students are dressed to fight or at least contribute in some way, an excuse to be properly garbed for escape if fortune showed Acidalium no favor. It had not, and so Emma and Hank would have led the brood-- arrayed in breeches, tunics, and hide surcoats-- down to the catacombs. 

Only Francesca and Jason had not been prepared in this manner, for fear of alarming any in their respective households. Above her high-waisted burgundy gown, Francesca's face is a pale oval, neck flushed with anger where all other color is absent, lips pressed into nonexistence. It's a dour expression of displeasure for a girl of fourteen seasons, but her mother (having been, at varying points, the prey of both Lord Stryker and Trask) has her well-schooled. Her jet black hair and angular looks do not give one hint of her male parentage-- at least there's that. 

As Charles watches, Betsy-- her own continence an angel-mask of unconcerned marble-- leans confidingly towards the other girl. Whispering something, she accepts the ill-clad young boy into her arms, allowing his sister to rise. Jason, only just breeched and dressed in a blue velvet tunic, looks pathetically incongruous against Betsy's shirt of silver mail. He accepts the transfer as a prince might when carried from jeweled couch to palanquin-- with a regal indifference that assumes he is the point of the maneuver and not the inconvenience. He can walk on the ankle of his 'clubbed' left foot, but not at any significant speed. The limp it causes is quite marked, despite the clever cobblers employed by his father to disguise the anomaly. At eight, he is a slight creature, appearing undernourished despite his father's well-known ample feasts. Elvish physical development is roughly commensurate with human aging until approximately the twenty-fifth season, the mental divide becoming marked far earlier. A stranger might reckon Jason more a boy of six seasons, though his purely intellectual abilities are nearly twice that. Stryker, unmarried, might well have made the bastard child his heir but for his intense loathing of any and all perceived 'weakness'. In addition to lacking his father's robust health, Jason's birth defect-- a symptom, some say, of his mother's intense spite-- is reckoned a mark of ill fortune. Deviation from the bland, symmetrical prettiness of their race is extremely rare, and only exacerbates these rumors. Comely of visage and possessed of what is actually a rather sweet temperament, there is nevertheless a petulance hovering about his mouth and in his eyes which Xavier has been at pains to discourage. Right now, the look seems to have positively calcified, pouty wet lips much reminiscent of his sire.

 

Bracing for a confrontation, the professor experiences an odd mixture of surprise, faint reprieve, and hurt when Francesca does not approach. Turning instead towards a nearby table and its pitcher, her focus and purposeful motions create an impenetrable sphere of indifference, effectively excluding the little party of three from the rest of their fellows. 

"It's good to see you safe," Hank says, once the younger children have quieted. They remain clinging to Charles' legs or anchored to him by a fistful of sleeve, uncritical and starved for constancy after the chaos of the day. This upheaval, the tectonic friction of the personal and the political, now defines all of Jord. Thousands of individual destinies will fall asunder as foundations crumble. It will cost the children above all others, if Xavier cannot manage to be both exceedingly clever and ridiculously favored by Lady Fortune. The professor does not discourage his many satellites he's suddenly acquired, their weight and living warmth a reminder that his responsibility stems from love as well as duty. He ruffles hair and pats in reassurance as needed, though the pile-on makes moving towards Remy and Emma a bit like wading through molasses. McCoy takes an elbow, looking at once heartened and rather guilty himself. 

"Thank you," Charles says, summoning a smile from some empty space within. "You as well, my friend." And then frowning, knowing the inherent danger of assumptions, "You _are_ well, aren't you? All of you, given the current circumstances?"

There's a general murmur of assent from the children clustered about the professor, all of them trying to put on a brave face and in no way able to comprehend the raw reality of the situation. Remy declares his foot 'doesn't even hurt', and Ororo is eager to recall the success of her combined effort with Charles-- the extra bolstering of her wind spell that knocked Angel out of the sky. At twelve, she betrays an innocent sort of blood-thirstiness; rare and found only amongst children of all races, lacking as it does true malice or understanding of consequences. Her heart is the adamant shard of a warrior, clearly visible in her expression and only reinforced by the tight, niveous boxer's braids framing her face. 

Hanks begins, "We--"

"And just what _are_ the circumstances of which you speak, _professor_?" Betsy asks, unabashed and with an orator's ringing clarity. Her tone is one Xavier has heard thousands of times before, though never from her. It is as if she has become a stone oracle, lips parted to channel his mother's voice. That half-dismissive conversational dig, with its sea-churning undercurrent of 'explain yourself' and 'what have you done _now_?'. Abruptly but very clearly, he pictures her at the Eostre dance; her tremulous smile during the first act of the performance and the later toss of her chin and amethyst hair, as if to say 'see, I was never nervous at all'. Her censure hurts, as it was meant to, but the burn of it seems oddly distant. Perhaps anesthetized because it is no less than he deserves or should expect. 

Yet his flinch, simultaneously echoed by Hank, stems not at all from the condemnation. Too well-trained to display his personal hurt, he is still very much aware of the larger audience throughout the Healer's Tent. That others may not be able to catch the entire exchange is no reprieve; it means only that imagination will be paired the expressions they _can_ see. Carefully casual, Hank moves so that his lanky form blocks primary visibility. Charles, while not as much assistance vertically, waits a beat to help shore up the 'wall'. 

"Fluid." It is Emma who speaks, her quiet snap like the bolt of diamond she can so easily conjure to her hand. "The situation is fluid. Or have you not eyes in your head to see that?"

Betsy's likely furious retort is stifled by another look, this time from McCoy. Not having a face predisposed to anger or disgust, the apprentice teacher's fierce warning expression is particularly potent. 

 

"We waited as long as we could," the taller elf informs Charles, otherwise ignoring the brief digression. "Then Jean received your signal. She said it was imperative we go on without you."

"Most imperative," the prince affirms. And, willing the words to wipe the obvious furrows of responsibility from Hank's brow; "I'm very glad you did."

"You were _loud_," Jean informs him, childishly factual. For a moment, memory jars, almost blank. Had he been? It's very likely. Intellectually, he knows he had been desperate, but there is a shadow-sketch below the bland, almost pre-carved recollection. Erik's pulse-- which quickly seduced his own into a matching rhythm-- roaring in Charles' ears like a turbulent arctic sea. A warm spring in the heart of a glacier; familiar as the tides of his own heart and as foreign as being shipwrecked on some lunar coast. 

His ears are ringing with blood at this very moment, tips hot under the fur of his cap, and he is surprised to hear himself say from afar, "I was afraid you wouldn't hear me. I may have overcompensated."

"It's alright, I'm not hurt," she chirps, before that little cameo face clouds. "But then, for just a moment, it was as if you disappeared."

_'Subsumed,'_ Charles thinks without meaning to, remembering the frost-fire of Erik's passionate regard. _'Eaten. Fee, fi, fo, fum.'_ He shudders, and prays its from aversion to the impropriety. 

"Well, clearly he is present before you now," Emma remarks from her seat, idly picking dirt-- or, more likely, blood-- from nails of her platinum gauntlet. Jean has no reply, merely jostling Bruce a bit so she can reattach herself to the professor. No one has remarked on Xavier's regal coat or hat, but the children seem very fond of the fur edging. The prince himself looks at Frost questioningly but, though she does not avoid it, she also does not meet his gaze. Her seemingly prosaic intervention in the conversation, while helpful, is odd. Involved only in training the older children-- Betsy, Francesca and, just this past winter, Remy-- her tutelage is thorough and dispassionate. She is, as ever, a credit to her family name. All else regarding the children's education and well-being she considers Charles' purview, and does not disguise her gladness of it. 

 

"Was it you who tripped some mechanism in the upper levels?" McCoy inquires. "It must have been quite old-- how the foundations trembled!-- but it also opened a diagonal shaft off the passage we mapped, and I thought it might lead us out further beyond the moat." He frowns, biting a lip the looks already much assaulted from the day, "Yet still they overtook us-- from the _east_." 

"There was a hidden trigger in the princess' sacrificial chamber," Xavier affirms, leaving Erik's contribution to the quake aside for the moment. The latest revelation is discomforting enough to distract from it. To come from the east would mean the enemy's forces were further down in the tunnels, where old and half-burred passages burrowed further into the mountainside. Towards Leng. 

"It seems your fears were all too well-founded," Hank continues, an unknowing echo of Raven's praise. In his drawn face, Charles can see the ghosts of lengthy strategy sessions disguised as work in the herb garden; of nights pouring over crumbling maps, eyes straining in the lamplight they kept low to avoid suspicion. "We were exposed beyond measure, and the Dark Lord's push from Phlegra merely a distraction." What goes without saying is the fact the maze was not merely one of confused direction and stone, but also of archaic wards and hidden traps. That Hank, Emma, and the other escapees where found with so much seeming ease… 

The prince shakes his head, accepting no merit for the strategic insight. Who has it saved? He still cannot discount the notion that the presentiment of danger disguised a greater blindness-- failure to recognize what his under-mind might already have sensed was Erik's intent. He is not merely lost in the wilderness of the Forbidden Mountains; he is unmoored within himself. 

 

As Xavier's atypical silence spins out slowly, the apprentice cautiously adds, "I-- that is, _we_ \--" He nods towards Betsy and Emma, "--tried to hold them back, but the numbers confronting us…"

"There was a _devil_," Remy interjects, seeming to feel his own efforts unrecognized. "A rock ogre, too. I took a chip out of him, and kicked him when he seized me!" He jiggles his bandaged foot, evidently an artifact of this adventure. 

"Not a 'devil'," Bruce corrects the older boy importantly, "A _space-shifter_. The human concept of the devil is irrelevant and flawed." He pronounces 'human' in an exact copy of the adults at Court, ' _hyuu_ -mahn'. What ensues is a petulant display of tongues from both sides of the debate. The professor, letting the issue slide for now, never the less makes a distracted note to remind Bruce that humans invented that gesture as well. 

This by-play, the squabbling of any schoolroom, provides a soothing sense of normalcy, despite the underlying anxiety which the children likely cannot name. They are hardy and adaptable, Xavier's students, even as they learn this strange new thing-- the lamentation of what is gone and dead. Their resilience, no less courageous for being all unknowing, lends Charles heart where his own is numb

_(leaden-- metal, that element which is Erik's birthright, and by that virtue ever at his command)_

and ill-disposed to stir. At some point, too distant to be contemplated and yet so very near, the metaphorical organ will come alive again, broadcasting pain. For now, inundated by anguish, the very nerves of his soul seem to be shutting down. 

 

Some of this-- the impossible coexistence of hope and hopelessness-- must show on his face for, glancing briefly down at the children, Hank leans over to whisper in the most ritualized, archaic form of their mother tongue, "And the outcome?"

"Catastrophic." The prince's voice is only a rough susurration. Despite his intentions, the word comes out in common Elvish, its feeling being too much for antiquated formula to contain. After a moment, he makes the appropriate switch. "Between fifteen and twenty maniples, not including archers. Apparently many surrendered towards the end, but-- I have reason to distrust the source. It may be worse."

"Worse," McCoy echoes disbelievingly. "Our fellow mages?"

"I don't know." Charles swallows; Erik had not spoken of them and, focused on the children, he had not thought to ask. 

_('Had not thought?' Cain's voice asks mockingly, 'Or had not cared?' What a strong left hand you have, dear brother-not-of-blood. Your bondmate strikes down all who have harmed or mocked you, and you don't have to lift that be-ringed finger.')_

"And the King?" It is the crux of the matter, but they're running out of room to obfuscate, McCoy lapsing also away from archaic expression. The children are not unaware of linguistic gradations, and they are most certainly primed to communication intended to exclude them. They've pressed even closer to Charles-- Jean, Bruce, and Ororo-- faces tilted up, wide eyes and elfin ears in no way discouraging a feline comparison. They are owed answers phrased in a context they can understand, and Hank would not be asking in their presence if the situation were any less uncertain. 

Knowing it to be shielded from the larger audience of wounded, Charles holds the four fingers of his right hand stiffly together, rotating his wrist until they point upwards. Four-- _shi_ \-- the number of death, at the position of the clock as it strikes life's final toll of midnight. 

Hank nods somberly.

"We expected as much," Emma says, quietly punctuating the matter. She flicks her ice-green gaze between Charles and the alliance of Betsy and Francesca in the corner-- the two students erudite enough to also interpret the sign. The younger of the two has finished her pouring, standing at Betsy's side with a full wooden chalice of wine in hand. Typical fare for any army, given that it does not freeze, but Xavier still spares a moment to hope the younger children where given something more appropriate. She does not, thankfully, allow Jason to take the cup despite his tugging. The majority of the prince's mind is on the sudden, if somewhat predictable, rift amongst his students. He is thus doubly startled by Ororo's tugging for his attention, particularly because she has taken hold of the trailing end of the sash he still holds draped over his left arm. The precious cargo is not loosed, but the near-miss recalls to him the dangerous nature of its possession. He'll have no choice but to pass the burden on. 

 

"His-Grace-The-King," the little storm-mage begins, making the title a single word. It is a title of fear, but of the repetitive sort, eaten over and over again with each meal until it becomes flavorless. "He said he'd lash me to the bone… I must do all the generals asked and more-- that if the fortress fell--" Ororo draws in a wet breath, but Charles is gratified to see some pique mixed in with the trepidation. She knows such chastisement would be wrong, and wholly undeserved. 

"You need have no fear of that now," the prince says gently, feeling every ounce of his own disbelief. He thinks of Jord's many gods, all of whom are purported to have stood in the quiet dawn of the world as it reformed on the bones of gods older still. Surely they too would have stared with naked incomprehension, no less stunned by their victory then their dying titan foes. Appalled too, perhaps, that they had ever feared the vanquished to begin with. Now that the enemy seemed so small.

 

Cupping Ororo's cheek with an earnest, tender hand, Xavier nevertheless uses the moment to elbow Hank's side with his free arm. In a quick, efficient exchange, the apprentice takes the wad of satin brocade and conceals it in the pocket of his surcoat. Their eyes never meet, and Hank gives no sign to question the harder contents of the package. Indeed, the professor's true attention is on the distressed child-- the sleight of hand is one he and his closest confidant have performed often enough. 

To Ororo, he says, "It is _not_ your--"

"But the fortress did fall." Jean's words are less an interruption than an articulation of half-tranced inner thoughts. Her eyes, changeable citrine and tawny like those of a marsh lion, have taken on the cast of inner focus-- something she cannot yet control. She is powerful, this twelfth daughter of a minor lord, and more prone to visions than her teacher. Their powers are much akin though, and that Charles is more powerful is a statement only of degree. "The fortress fell, the city fell…" Her voice is almost sing-song now.

"Be silent!" Bruce demands, moan pitching into an uncharacteristic whine. He is not the only one to feel she's breaking a tenuous circle of safety by acknowledging their woes so directly. Ororo hisses as though burnt, and Remy actually tries to kick the little redhead despite the prohibition about startling seers in occultation. Quickly, Charles places an anchoring hand on her shoulder, noticing only afterwards that it is his newly freed left. The intricate silver of that blasted ring touches her bare skin, where the collar of the hide tunic is askew. Jean looks up at him sharply, expression one of confusion, and he hears her say, ' _there is a white place_ '. Though her lips move slightly, the true sound of it rings-- lonesome, the dove-coo of some tiny bell-- in his mind. 

Just as swiftly, full consciousness returns to her gaze-- he can almost see it pouring in-- and she continues as if the lapse had never occurred. To her, that is very likely true. Now her agitation is once more than of a child warding off an evil sprite in the wardrobe; "Betsy says the enemy digs a big trench and makes you kneel so they can--"

"Never mind what Betsy says," Hank admonishes, imitating some of Emma's brisk tone. "Scarcely a word comes from the front that is not mangled from many tellings or fear. We have been fed and, thus far, treated acceptably. Make no assumptions."

Wise advice. Now, if only Charles could thrust the words back through the white chaos, to the Xavier of two days ago. Naive scholar who faced an undecided battle and embraced a ghost from the past so unquestioningly. One precise blow of the quarter staff, enough pressure exerted for a mere forty seconds on the throat; he knows the theory, if not the practice. All of this could have been ended while the Dark Lord's guard 

( _He does not ask himself if he is capable of killing Erik. That is, the capacity of heart and not skill. The tenacity to reach in and methodically extinguish a part of himself whilst life fled from eyes he would know and recognize after a thousand years of absence. He only knows that he likely should have tried._ )

was down and the bond unsealed. 

 

"Listen to me very carefully," he says, adjusting no volume for the announcement. Let their erstwhile auditors hear-- it is only the truth, and the students must know it. He takes care to meet each gaze individually; including that of Betsy and Jason, and of Francesca, who has come closer. "You fought bravely, and long before any mage is expected to. You've had no Trial, but your efforts equalled those of many fully-fledged sorcerers. **None of this is your fault**."

Hope, in each set of eyes on him-- Emma's laced with sardonic acknowledgement, Betsy's with the resentment of being inspired to feel. Only Francesca's gaze is downcast in an attitude of meekness as she approaches Charles. Her determination is such that even the children part for her. She holds the cup of wine like an offering.

"Master Teacher," she says, as though addressing a multitudinous Temple assembly. "My question then is this."

The professor sees, with that sight beyond mere sight, that she moves in an umbra of loss and anxiety-- gray-brown, obscuring as threadbare silk. Yet it is shot through, too, with bleeding yellow. Acidic spite which matches not at all the well-executed mask of contrition. He knows, too late to halt or caution, exactly her intent.

Staring him down, fuming through her farce of appeasement; "Who **is** at fault?"

 

Then Francesca, bastard daughter of House Trask, dashes the full cup of wine directly in Charles' face. 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Attack of) Meredith's Boring World-Building Notes:  
> [+] _neshama_ \- Hebrew. The intelligent, reasoning part of the soul. In Judaism, the soul actually has three 'parts'-- the neshama being the purest portion. The other two are _'ruach'_ and _'nefesh'_ (the lowest, 'animal' portion of the soul). They are sometimes compared to 'though/speech/action'. All religious references used with the utmost respect and admiration, absolutely no offense intended.  
>  [+] _anima_ \- since I didn't marry the entire Jewish theory of the soul into the story, I decided to use the Greek term for the other portion.  
> [+]'Bring Us Your Wounded' ( _mihi portate vulneratos_ ) is the motto of the real-life US Army 67th Evac Hospital, which provided care to those in combat zones from WWI up until the second Iraq War. Again, used only with the utmost respect-- it's always struck me as a wonderful way to phrase any healer's purpose.  
> [+] **salamander** \- according to Medieval legend, salamanders were born from fire and thrive there, being somewhat related to dragons.  
> [+] _shi_ \- Japanese, 'four'. 4 and the kanji for death have the same pronunciation, giving the number a reputation similar to that of 13 in many western countries.  
> [+] additional note re the use of the term ' **club foot'** : the proper medical term is CTEV and, from a modern standpoint, many born with the condition are able to seek therapy and treatment that allows them to walk and even play sports normally. Again, no insult intended. Given the 'ancient' setting of the story, the old-world term just made more sense.  
> [+] **Francesca Trask** is a comics character from Earth-295. My primary interest in the storyline is Cherik-related: apparently David Haller went back in time to assassinate Magneto, but Charles deliberately jumped between them. THESE BOYS. Die/randomly cancel the apocalypse for each other? Sure. Talk to each other? That would be _silly_.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "Love Like Winter"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739069) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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